


The Infallible Girl

by Sasarara



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Coming of Age, Drama, Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasarara/pseuds/Sasarara
Summary: Isis Ishtar's journey from the Tomb to Battle City was equal parts heartbreaking and hopeful. This fic follows her on her mission to save her brothers. Totally canon friendly!





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Choices and the Chosen

With trembling hands that she hoped went unnoticed, Isis passed her first month's rent to the landlord. The sound as she tore the check out of the book seemed to echo around the dingy office. He held it up to the light to test its validity and stamped it. Thanks to the Torc she knew he'd accept it but she still felt nervous. This was the first time she had ever purchased anything with money that was legitimately hers, money she hadn't had to beg for, steal, or scam off of anyone. To Isis, it represented her first small step back into a life of dignity.

"And you promise you're over eighteen?" the landlord asked once again. While sun and stress and general street life had aged Isis beyond her years, she still had the petite frame and wide eyes of a young girl. "Yes, sir," she said, keeping her voice level and deep. In the grand scheme of things, it was only a small lie, especially compared to the myriad deception she had woven to reach this point. The landlord shrugged and handed her two keys; one for her door and one for her mail locker in the lobby. She took the keys, smiled, and began the long trek up the stairs to her eighth-floor walk-up. It would be her first true shelter in almost two years. As soon as she was out of view of the lobby her steady gate turned into a dash. She ascended the stairs two, sometimes three at a time. Twice she nearly turned her ankle as her unfamiliar heels snagged on the moth-eaten stair runner.

Finally, she arrived at the top floor, home to the smallest and cheapest units of the already low-quality apartment complex. The walk down the hall to her door was nearly intoxicating. The streets of Cairo were teeming with life, but it was the hustle and bustle of the public. Up here the scents and sounds of intimacy wafted through the air and threatened to overtake her. It was equal parts alienating and familiar; a reminder of the life she had lost and yet so vastly different than the life she had recently been leading. Isis lingered briefly by one door from which she could hear children at play and smell roasting vegetables. She longed to enter that door.

Isis opened her own door slowly. There was a moment of irrational alarm when her key stuck in the lock but the elderly bolts soon gave way. She stepped inside wondering what she would find. One reason the apartment was so cheap was that she'd had to accept it sight unseen. Isis had somehow been in the right place at the right time to negotiate an illegal sublet offer from Hiram, the previous tenant, who needed to leave the city in a rush. If she was willing to pay her first month in advance and pretend to be the man's cousin so as to evade suspicion of subletting, the place was hers at cost. The only catch was that the tenant had what he called "sensitive materials" (drugs, supplied the Torc) that he didn't want "a bright young woman to be bothered with" (no witnesses, supplied her own common sense) and so was unable to show her the place first. Time was of the essence and he needed an answer immediately. They shook hands. She would move in the following afternoon.

Isis had been tempted to use the Torc to see the apartment but managed to restrain herself. Only for necessity, only for necessity, she repeated like a mantra. She had used it that morning to secure her position at the museum. She had used it to run into Hiram after his important "business meeting." She had used to make sure that Hiram's business would not put her on the wrong side of the law if she accepted the apartment. It was necessary to know these things. Using it to see the apartment interior felt like an abuse of power, and she knew all too well where that path led. Thus it was with curiosity that she entered her new home for the first time.

It was small; just one room and a restroom. There was a kitchenette in the far corner that included a sink and a small stove. The only delineation between it and the living room was a jagged line where the carpet had been inexpertly ripped away to reveal the concrete floor beneath. Either Hiram had moved all of his furniture out with him or the apartment had been solely for the purpose of storing his illicit merchandise. The room was completely bare. Dust motes filled the air and shimmered in the afternoon sunlight.

Isis gently placed her duffel bag and briefcase, the sum total of all her worldly possessions, on the floor. Next, she kicked off her pumps and took a ginger step onto the industrial grey-brown carpet. It was stained and frayed in multiple places but after walking barefoot for almost two years and then spending a day in pleather heels it felt more luxurious underfoot than she had dared to imagine. She shuffled her feet back and forth, savoring the texture of the carpet fibers against her aching soles.

She took off her blazer and Oxford shirt, taking care not to undo any of the strategically placed safety pins. It had been so hard to find the right position to give her the illusion of hips and she didn't want to bother with it again if she could help it. Next, she unzipped the pencil skirt and unpinned the fabric scraps from the front and sides of her shorts and longed for a day when she would not have to create the illusion of being a healthy weight. Where once stood a professional young woman now was a half-starved, seventeen-year-old girl wearing a yellowing t-shirt and a pair of children's bike shorts.

After hanging her work clothes on the doorknob Isis took a lap around the room, taking care to test the security of the locks, the state of the bathroom's plumbing, and the condition of the stove. Everything seemed to be in working order. Much to her delight she even found a cracked full-length mirror on the inside of the bathroom door. More out of habit than necessity she gave the Torc a mental nudge and picked up on no immediate threats. For the first time since she had made the mistake of taking Malik outside, Isis was absolutely safe. In this place, at this time, she did not have to watch over her shoulder. She did not have to poise herself to flee. She did not have to pretend to be older and wiser than she was. And, she realized with a jolt, she did not have to wear the Torc.

The prospect of taking the Torc off was simultaneously terrifying and invigorating. Over the last two years, it had been her only ally. The Torc had provided for her, guided her steps, and kept her safe. Isis thought that to be without those powers now would feel similar to going suddenly blind. On the other hand, the Torc was a heavy burden to bear. Aside from the mental strain that came from using its gifts it also carried the weight of its sacred past and the pull of its impending future. Sometimes she imagined herself as its prisoner, trapped in the confines of the present, guided by its will and not her own.

Despite her reservations, the urge to gain even a brief moment of freedom from the Torc was too much for Isis to ignore. With trembling fingers, Isis unclasped the Torc for the first time in two years. It occurred to her that since she had never taken it off, and before leaving home had not been allowed near it alone, she had never really examined it closely. She turned it around in her hands a few times and cringed when she saw a few strands of her hair stuck in the clasp and a sweaty film in the crevice on the back of the Wadjet Eye. Millennium Item or not, it was still a piece of jewelry that had been worn without removal for far too long. Isis made a mental note to clean it before starting work.

She put the Torc reverentially onto her kitchen counter. She had no idea what breaking physical contact with it would do and braced herself for anything from a burst of power, to strange visions, to fatigue. It was almost anticlimactic when nothing happened. The Wadjet Eye gazed benignly up at her and put her in mind of a dog waiting for a command from its owner. "Good… girl?" she mumbled and then smiled sheepishly at the childishness of talking to the Torc like it was her pet. It had not been very dignified.

But it had felt good.

It had been a long time since Isis had acted her age, and now in the confines of her little apartment, she could. And why not? Even in the Tomb, she hadn't acted like the child that she was. After her mother's death, she and Rishid had essentially become Malik's surrogate parents. Isis' first concrete memory was of that night. Though she was only three at the time, the sounds of her mother's suffering had been branded deep inside of her. She had stood with Rishid, both of them so helpless, while her father had tended the birth. At one point her father had run out of the hall and returned with the Millennium Rod, knife unsheathed. Her mother had immediately fallen silent, her expression of pain replaced by a passive smile. Then her father used the knife…

Halima, a longtime Ishtar family servant and Malik's nurse, had explained later that her brother had come out feet-first, and when that happens the only way to save the mother and child was to cut the child out. She swore to Isis that her father had been trying to save everyone the only way he knew how. Halima had also told her not to blame Malik for their mother's death. Isis had simply nodded. The truth was that blaming Malik had never occurred to her. Even as a child Isis had understood that he hadn't come out backward on purpose. When she thought about that night all she could remember was her father, happier than she had ever seen him before or since, dashing away with Malik and leaving their mother to bleed to death. If he ever grieved the loss of his wife, Isis had not seen it.

At first their father had tried to involve himself in their lives. Or at least he tried to involve himself in Malik's life. He mostly ignored Isis, checking in sporadically to ensure that she was keeping up with her studies. Rishid had been demoted from son to servant. Isis' mother had treated Rishid so much like her own that Isis had been shocked when her father told her that he was not actually her brother, and therefore not to be treated as such. While Isis and Rishid faded into the background, their father doted on Malik.

This attention lasted for about five years. It soon became apparent that Malik was not the perfectly devoted student that their father had envisioned. Instead of listening patiently to the reading of sacred texts, Malik would fidget and make up his own nonsensical stories about the historical figures. Malik avoided the inner holy chambers of the Tomb in favor of the entry way and light well. He seemed to crave attention from Isis and Rishid over somber meditation. To put it bluntly, their father was dismayed to discover that Malik was, indeed, a normal child. The breaking point came when, at six-years-old, their father decided it was time to tell Malik about the Tomb Keepers' Initiation. He had expected his son to be eager to embrace his sacred heritage. Instead, Malik had his first anxiety attack. Their father's relationship with Malik soon turned from one of a hopeful and loving mentor to an exasperated task master.

As her father grew older he began to involve himself less and less with their family. He spent most of his time deep in his chambers or in the room where the Torc and Rod were kept, only interacting with his children when he absolutely had to. Thus it had fallen on Isis to instruct the servants, manage the food coming into the tomb, and generally ensure that their day-to-day lives operated smoothly.

She had not needed the Millennium Torc to see what her future held; she knew that her father was wasting away, if not physically then certainly mentally, and would soon leave her to run the Tomb entirely. Instead of joining the outer clan and helping provide for the central clan, which was the traditional job of the female heirs, she would have to stay and look after her brother. Even after she found a wife for him she still didn't think she would trust Malik to manage things without her. Theoretically, Rishid could take that role over for her but she knew that her adoptive brother's love for Malik would make him too easy to manipulate.

Isis understood her fate and begrudgingly accepted it. However, before resigning herself to a life of darkness, she had decided to spend one more day in the light. Oh, she told Rishid and Malik and even herself that it was for him, that she'd had to be talked into it, that she was doing it against her will, but it was all lies. She wanted to feel the sun on her skin, and the wind in her hair, and walk the streets of the bazaar on her own without the weight of responsibility and unaccompanied by a family member (Malik didn't count. All older siblings know that younger siblings don't count.). Malik had simply been a convenient excuse. That hour was supposed to have been the last moment of childish freedom for the rest of her life.

In the following nights, she often lay awake replaying the situation in her mind. What if she had paid more attention to the servants as they operated the doors and had known about the hidden alarm? What if they hadn't walked all the way into the village and had just explored the ruins instead? What if she had intercepted Malik before he claimed the Millennium Rod? What if she hadn't been a selfish little brat? Malik had been the one to kill their father but Isis put the blame squarely on herself. She had manipulated him into going outside. She had betrayed her family's sacred duty, her father's trust, and her brothers' souls.

She remembered waking up to the glow of candlelight. In the sleepy haze before her consciousness fully returned, she had stretched her limbs out and enjoyed the warmth on her skin. It had been a beautiful few minutes. The illusion was shattered the instant she opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was blood spattered over her tunic. Except for a scraped knee and a dull headache she seemed to have no injuries. It was not her blood. She reached behind her to use the floor as a brace to stand. Instead of hard stone, her hand landed on something yielding and sticky. Cold dread began to spread through her. She remembered the past year when she had accidentally spilled stew over a sacred text. The sensation of iced fear she felt when telling her father about her mistake and awaiting punishment paled in comparison to this. Isis knew whose blood she had woken up in. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was Malik lunging for the Millennium Rod. Such insolence would surely garner a terrible punishment, the worst thing that could happen to Malik without physically harming him. She was certain that what her hand now rested on was Rishid's body. Slowly Isis turned to face her older brother.

From as far back as Isis could remember she had never had a particularly good relationship with her father. Even so, the sight of his mangled body crushedher.

"F-Father?" she said, her voice shaking. He was laying on his stomach, leaving his back exposed. It had been completely flayed away. "Father?" she said again, louder and more firmly this time. If it was just a torn back, he could be alright, she told herself. His back had been torn up before and he survived. So had Malik. She grabbed his shoulder and attempted to roll him over. It took a few tries. Her father was much heavier than she had expected and the still-fresh blood prevented her from getting a good grip. With a final heave she managed to turn him over. In her panic it never occurred to Isis that, had her father been alive, putting all of his weight on his shredded back would have been a terrible idea. But it didn't matter. The deep puncture wound over his heart told Isis that he was gone.

Fighting the urge to break down entirely, Isis staggered to her feet. Her father's blood was still bright red meaning that the atrocity had been committed recently. And where were Malik and Rishid? What if the murderer was after them, too? She remembered the man from the village. It had to have been him. He must be an enemy of the Pharaoh seeking to destroy his servants. That meant that her brothers were in mortal danger as well. She could see a trail of bloody footsteps leading out of the Millenniumchamber, up the stairs, and into the light. Isis followed the trail dreading what she would find. As she ran a fragment of memory came back to her. Just before fainting she remembered hearing a cracked, malicious voice; the voice of the murderer.

She burst outside expecting to see her brothers mangled like her father and the strange man laughing at their demise. Instead, she found Malik and Rishid sitting on a stone slab a few yards away from the Tomb's entrance. Malik was breathing heavily like he'd just had one of his anxiety attacks and Rishid was trying to sooth him.

"Breathe, breathe, breathe," her older brother was chanting. "There you go. Just breathe." Malik nodded, but then gasped and started shaking again.

"Quick, what's seven times eighteen?" Rishid asked.

"One hundred and twenty-six," Malik stuttered after a brief pause.

"Good, that's right. Now, who was the first known Pharaoh?" Rishid continued.

Isis had seen this routine many times before. She and Rishid had discovered that the best way to calm Malik during an anxiety attack was to make him focus on other things. This familiar scene caused Isis to be overtaken with relief to the point of delirium. Despite everything she found herself laughing as she dashed over. Without hesitation, she flung her arms around both of them. Instead of returning her embrace like she expected, Rishid recoiled with a pained groan and Malik pushed her away.

"Don't touch him!" Malik yelled. "Can't you see he's hurt, foolish girl?!"

Sure enough from up close Isis could see that Rishid's back almost as bad as their father's. Already flies were beginning to hover around him. Her misguided hug had smeared her forearm with blood. "Sorry!" she gasped. "What happened? Was it the stranger? Where is he?" She looked between the two of them, desperate for answers.

"No," Malik answered, his voice trembling. "It was Father."

Isis shuddered. Punishment had been dealt after all. "I'm sorry Rishid," she said. "It's my fault."

"Don't worry, Miss Isis," he said. "I am fine."

Isis doubted that he was truly fine, but there would be time to atone later. Currently, there were more pressing issues to address. "So who… who did that to Father?"

"The stranger."

"The Pharaoh!"

Both of her brothers' answers were blurted out almost before Isis had finished the question. Rishid's response was calm to the point of being rehearsed. Malik's response was frenzied and bordered on panic. She looked from one to the other trying to figure out where to start. As she took them in Isis noticed something she had previously overlooked. Lying innocuously between them on the slab was the Millennium Rod. As she stared at it a fly landed on the sheath and began to explore.

She reached out to take the Rod but Malik snatched it up and clutched it possessively to his chest. The fly drifted away from the Rod and landed on Isis' bloodied tunic.

"Ah, what a good instinct to protect the sacred Items," Rishid said after an uncomfortable pause. "But I think, Master Malik, that you should let your sister see it." His tone was light and reassuring, but Isis could sense an undertow of fear.

"Yes," she said quickly, trying to match Rishid's calm tenor. "You've done such a good job of protecting it. Why don't you let me worry about it for now?"

With a look of extreme uncertainty, Malik passed the Rod to Isis. "Thank you," she said with false cheerfulness and tugged the knife about an inch out of the sheath. It was hard to hide her disgust when she saw the browning blood that coated it. She had found the murder weapon and it didn't add up. If it had been the stranger who killed their father with the Millennium Rod then how had Rishid and Malik, an unarmed young man and a child, been able to get it away from him?

The words 'foolish girl' replayed in Isis' mind. That's what Malik had called her when she'd accidentally touched Rishid's wounds. It's what her father called her when she disappointed him. She had never heard Malik use the expression until moments ago and now it was bothering her. And since when had he been so protective of the Millennium Rod? Up until that day Malik had been afraid of it. And… had he just said the Pharaoh killed their father?

Isis glanced over to Rishid who quickly averted his eyes. "Why don't… why don't you tell me what happened down there, Malik?" she asked, trying to keep her tone easy. "All I remember is walking down the stairs and then I think I fainted. Could you please fill me in?"

Rishid cut in before Malik had a chance to answer. "Please, let me," he said, the fear now more prominent in his voice. "Malik had quite an ordeal and I don't think we should make him relive it so soon." Malik sat silently, his eyes transfixed on the Millennium Rod in Isis' hands.

"Very well," conceded Isis. She wanted to hear Malik's version of events but Rishid had a point. The last thing they needed was for Malik to break down. Still, she had the feeling that there was something her brothers, or at least Rishid, did not want her to know.

"It was a man with the Millennium Ankh. Malik says you saw him in the village. He must have followed you home. He pushed you into the wall and you passed out. Then he used the Ankh to overpower Master Ishtar and steal the Millennium Rod, and then the stranger killed him." As he spoke Rishid maintained the same rehearsed calmness he used to answer her before.

"Then what?" Isis asked. "That can't be all he did. Did he say why he was doing this? Or attack you, or go after the Torc?"

"No. He just vanished. Malik started to panic and I thought it best to take him away from the… from Master Ishtar."

Isis stared at her older brother for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. None of what he had just said made any sense. Why would someone kill the patriarch of the Tomb Keepers and run away without killing the rest of his lineage or taking the Millennium Items? Even a common thief wouldn't have left without stealing something. How had he just vanished?

"Rishid," Isis began calmly. "I don't understand. He just killed Father and left?"

"I'm telling you all that I know," Rishid insisted, though she noticed that he still would not look directly at her. "It doesn't make sense to me either, but that's what-"

"He was working for the Pharaoh."

Isis and Rishid froze. The fact that Malik had interrupted was not remotely surprising, but his time was different from his usual emotional outbursts. Malik's voice was low, almost a whisper, and seemed to be void of emotion. In any case, for him to settle down so quickly after a panic attack was unheard of. His eyes were still transfixed on the Millennium Rod and it seemed as if he was addressing it rather than his siblings.

"Isis, you heard what he said in the village. 'This is the will of the Pharaoh,'" Malik continued. "And after he killed Father, he told me that I had taken my first steps down the dark road of the Pharaoh. The Pharaoh wanted father dead."

"No, that can't be right," Isis said, though she too had heard the stranger in the village and been alarmed by his words. "He's probably just a regular man who was overcome by the Millennium Ankh. You know the Millennium Items can corrupt the unworthy." As she spoke, Isis could feel herself relaxing. Yes, that made perfect sense! Their father had warned them many times about the dangers of using the Millennium Items irresponsibly. If an Item judged its user unfit it could draw out the darkness hidden deep within them. There were even cryptic tales that suggested certain Millennium Items could possess even the purest hearted users.

Yet something in her subconscious was fighting to make itself known.

"Yes!" Rishid chimed in a little too enthusiastically. "That must be it! Some poor man must have gotten ahold of the Millennium Ankh and was driven to madness by it. You know the Items are attracted to each other. It was probably pulling him to the Rod and the Torc. It probably put that stuff about the Pharaoh into his mind. It must have meant it was the will of the Pharaoh for all the Millennium Items to be united. And the Ankh allows you to see into souls. When the man, or the Ankh maybe, realized that it had killed a guardian of the Items it knew it had made a mistake and fled!"

His words came pouring out in a jumble. All her life Isis had known Rishid to be thoughtful and subdued while Malik was emotional and impulsive. Now it seemed as if her brothers were trading personalities. She tried to convince herself that their sudden change in demeanor was the result of shock, but something felt more deeply off.

Whatever was fighting for her attention seemed to struggle harder.

"Yes," she conceded after Rishid came to a stop. "That does seem likely." Isis sighed and sank to the ground. So much had happened in such a short time that she had not yet been able to process all of it. She stared mutely at the sand for a moment and twirled the Millennium Rod absentmindedly in her hands. "I should probably clean this," she said softly, though the idea of unsheathing the blade and dealing with the blood nauseated her. There was a sudden weight on her shoulder. Expecting to see Rishid, she looked up. Instead, Malik was standing over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. "I will clean it. It is my responsibility now." His voice was still uncharacteristically soft, but his expression was back to something close to normal.

"I suppose so," Isis said and began to hand the Rod over to him. As Malik reached for the Rod, Isis realized what had been vying for her attention. The last thing she could remember seeing before losing consciousness was Malik seizing the Millennium Rod and pointing it at their father. That part of the confrontation had been suspiciously absent from Rishid's account. Maybe he hadn't mentioned Malik taking the Millennium Rod because he knew that Isis had been awake when it happened. She desperately wanted to believe that was true, but Rishid's evasive behavior was too much to ignore.

She quickly tugged the Rod away from Malik and held it out of his reach. "Wait," she said, trying to keep her face neutral. "Why don't I take care of it? You've been through so much today. I don't think you should have to deal with this right now."

A brief flicker of anger crossed Malik's face but it was gone in an instant. He plopped down beside Isis and buried his face in his hands. "Yeah… yeah, you're right," he sighed, his voice slightly muffled. He leaned so that Isis was supporting his weight. "My head hurts so much," he said as he pressed his cheek to her shoulder. "I think the stranger did something to me with the Millennium Ankh, but I don't remember what. Isis, I'm so tired."

Isis wrapped her arm around him and looked back at Rishid. He still seemed unable to look directly at her. She was sure he was withholding something. "I think something happened to me, too. I can barely remember anything after walking down the stairs," she said softly.

"Me too!" Malik looked up at her with an expression bordering on relief. "The last thing I remember was seeing father hurting Rishid, and then the next thing I know father was… he was in my arms… and the stranger said…" Malik trailed off. His eyes had filled with tears. "I took his earrings." He tucked his hair behind his ears and showed Isis the earrings. "One fell off and for some reason I couldn't leave them. I don't know why but it felt important."

Isis smiled as her little brother jabbered on. This was more like him. She was still unnerved by Rishid's behavior, but at least one of her siblings was acting normally. She wrapped her other arm around Malik and hugged him tightly. This time he returned the gesture without protest. "I'm sorry," she sighed. "I'm so sorry."

They sat like that for a while. She had half hoped that Rishid would join them, but he remained on the stone slab. At some point, Malik had started to cry and Isis fought back the urge to join him. There would be time to mourn later. Now she had to focus on taking care of her family and figuring out what was going on. After a few minutes, she relaxed her grip and began to rise.

"The sun is setting," she observed. Malik nodded his understanding. Underground the time of day had never really factored into their lives, but out here she knew it was important. Even in the desert, the night could bring dangerously cold temperatures and, especially in ruins like this, certain unsavory characters looking for artifacts to sell.

"What are we going to do now?" Malik asked, looking from Isis to Rishid for answers.

Isis wished that she had the answers but she wasn't even sure she knew all that had happened. She had no idea where to start. "Tomorrow is resupply day," Isis answered. "The servants will be here. They'll figure out what to do."

"That sounds like the best plan," Rishid said, though his voice was uncertain.

Malik nodded. "I guess so," he conceded. "But where will we stay until then?"

"Inside," Isis answered. "Where else would we stay?" As she answered, she felt Malik tense up beside her. His breathing became shallow.

"I don't want to go back inside," he said, his voice edged with anxiety. "I can't go back in the dark, Isis. I don't want to go!"

"Maybe we could try the village?" Rishid cut in. "I don't know if facing Master Ishtar's remains would be good for Malik. Maybe there's somewhere else we could stay."

Isis looked incredulously at her older brother. "If the servants discover father dead and us missing, they will assume the worst. There will be horrible consequences to pay. Rishid, you of all people should know that." She could not fathom how, even beset by fear and grief, Rishid could possibly suggest that. "If they even knew how long Malik has already been outside they might reject him as Tomb Keeper, or worse. They would certainly punish him."

"But I don't want to be Tomb Keeper!" Malik shouted. "Let them reject me! I don't want it!" Isis could tell he was on the verge of a breakdown. She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to calm him. Rishid leaped off the slab and began to rub Malik's back soothingly.

"I know, I know," Isis said in as gentle of a voice as she could. "But we can't stay out here, you know we can't. And who knows, maybe they'll let Rishid take over." This was false. Isis knew that family tradition dictated that the role of Tomb Keeper must be passed from father to son. The family would never allow Rishid to assume that responsibility. It was a lie, but it seemed to calm Malik. He turned and looked at the tomb entrance reluctantly. Rishid put his hand on Malik's shoulder and began to guide him towards the stairs. He still seemed anxious, but willing to walk without much urging. Isis scooped up the Millennium Rod and joined them.

"Anyway," she continued as they reached the concealed tomb doors. "We can't leave the sacred texts and Millennium Items unattended. Could you imagine what would happen if a grave robber found them? No matter what happens, we have to serve the Pharaoh."

Years later Isis would remember it as the most stupid thing she had ever said.

Malik froze at the top of the staircase, causing Rishid and Isis to stumble into him. It felt like running into a wall of iron. "No," he hissed. "We do not."

Malik turned to face his siblings. The glow of the setting sun cast strange shadows over his face. "You heard what the stranger said. It was the will of the Pharaoh that our father should die. He did this to us. I will not serve him. Not ever again."

Isis heard Rishid's breathing quicken. "Master Malik," he began, trying and failing to sound calm. "That's not true. The stranger was possess-"

"No! All our lives, all our family, everyone has been serving the Pharaoh for three thousand years! We did everything for him, we gave up everything, and how does he repay us?! He kills our father!" Malik's voice had changed from a whisper to an infuriated roar. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Isis had seen Malik have several bad anxiety attacks. The night before the Ritual had been horrible. She'd sat up all night with Malik as he'd cried and hyperventilated. But as terrible as that had been, she had never seen anything like this. She had never seen Malik so enraged before.

"B-brother," she stuttered. "You don't know what you're talking a-" She was cut off as Rishid clamped his hand over her mouth.

"Hush," he hissed in her ear. "If you don't stop talking you'll end up like Master Ishtar." Isis watched in mute horror as Malik, still raging, sank to his knees and clutched at his head.

"I will not go into the dark again! Not for him!" Malik roared, oblivious to his siblings.

Isis wrenched Rishid's hand away from her mouth and pushed him away. "Malik!" she yelled with as much authority as she could muster. "Stand up! You are better than this! Look at me!"

Through tears Malik turned to look at his sister, but instead of meeting her gaze his eyes fell upon the Millennium Rod clutched at her side. His sobbing and shaking instantly ceased. His eyes, which seemed to glow purple in the twilight, narrowed. Another wave of recollection washed over Isis. She remembered seeing dull, narrowed eyes glaring at her before losing consciousness. Somehow his sudden calmness was more concerning than his rage. "That's mine," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Give it back, Isis."

Technically, Malik was right. Now that their father was dead, the Rod was rightfully his. But in his frenzied state, Isis was sure that giving him the Rod was a bad idea. What was more, Rishid's remark about ending up like her father had not gone amiss. A horrible suspicion about what had truly happened in the tomb crept over her. The memory of Malik diving for the Millennium Rod, the wild-eyed stare, the cracked voice of the murderer… the contorted face of her brother.

"No." Isis tried so hard to sound firm but she could feel the tremble in her voice. "You're too upset. I'm keeping it for now."

She put the Millennium Rod behind her back forcing Malik to finally meet her gaze. While the eyes Isis stared into were not the wild eyes she remembered from earlier, they weren't quite her brother's either. His usual expression of excitable curiosity was replaced with a look of calculating anger. This was not the first time Isis had seen Malik this way. Since receiving the Tomb Keeper's Initiation two years previous she had noticed his disposition becoming gradually darker.

"But sister, think about it," he hissed. "What if the stranger was telling the truth? What if the Pharaoh did want all of this to happen?"

Isis shook her head. "No, that can't be true and you know it."

"Even if he didn't want our father to die it hardly excuses him. We have worked so hard to preserve his secrets. For three thousand years we have rotted in the dark while he has rested. And for what? When he comes back do you think he'll repay us for the thousands of years we've suffered for him? What could he give us that could possibly make up for it all?"

The words seemed to flow from him too smoothly. It was obvious to both Isis and Rishid that this was not the first time these ideas had occurred to Malik; it was simply the first time he voiced them so openly.

"Master," Rishid said softly. "I know your pain. I promise I do." He raised a hand to the scars on his face. "You are not alone. I share your destiny and-"

"Silence Rishid! It's not the same, you fool. I never asked you to do that! It was your own stupid decision," Malik spat.

"Malik!" gasped Isis, now outraged herself. "How dare you talk to our brother like that?!" Typically all it took was a look from Rishid to settle Malik when he was acting out. Even at his absolute worst Malik had never been so cruel.

"I did this for you," Rishid said. His voice was still soothing but it was obvious from his expression that Malik's vindictiveness had hurt him. "It may have been stupid, but I do not regret it. No matter what I will never let you walk alone. I will follow whichever path you choose."

For a second it appeared as if Malik was going to further insult Rishid, but words seemed to fail him in the face of his brother's selflessness. "Yes," he sighed instead. "You deserve better." Perhaps he's not too far gone, Isis thought. Malik turned to face her again. "And you deserve better, too, sister."

Isis was about to protest, but Malik cut her off before she could start. "Isis, we have two Millennium Items. Imagine what we could do with them. Father never used them except to punish us. He let them go to waste. But if I used the Rod and you used the Torc, think of how we could live."

Isis gaped at her brother. "What on earth are you talking about? We can't just-" she gestured vaguely, words temporarily forgotten due to the insanity of Malik's suggestion, "just use them, just because we want to. Father taught us-"

"What he taught us was foolish. If he had used the Millennium Torc, he would still be alive now."

Isis' rebuttal died in her mouth. Malik was right. She had never once seen her father use the Torc. If he had checked it, even occasionally, he could have prevented his own murder, stopped Malik from getting bitten by the cobra, and foreseen their mother's death. Anger flared within her at that thought, but Isis pushed it back down. There would be time to face her pain later.

"I know father seemed… lax in his duties," she conceded. "You will not make the same mistakes. You will be better than him."

"I already am." Malik's eyes seemed to glimmer as he spoke. "I am better because, unlike him, I will not be a willing slave to a Pharaoh I have never met." His lips quirked into a grin and caused the shadows to dance eerily across his face. "I have an idea."

Seeing Malik's face distorted in darkness gave Isis another disconcerting wave of memory from earlier that day. They were becoming sharper now. She could recall the veins on his temples pulsing and the way his posture had somehow become angular and rangy. Even his hair had seemed disheveled though there had been no breeze underground. Isis was now almost certain that it was Malik who had killed their father. Likewise, she was sure Rishid knew and was lying about it to protect him, but from whom? Even if her brother had done the unthinkable, there was no way Isis could harm him and she was sure Rishid knew it. Neither would the servants. As the only living heir, Malik's life was too valuable to risk. That left only one person, the person Rishid had sworn to protect from anything and everything.

Malik had never been good at hiding his feelings and even worse at lying despite how hard he tried. His siblings could always tell when he'd done something wrong by the look on his face alone. An important aspect of the outside excursion plot had been keeping Malik as far away from their father as possible for several days following their trip. Before discovering the hidden alarm, his tendency to wear his emotions on his sleeves had seemed like the biggest liability in their plan. For Ra's sake, he had been making motorcycle noises as they'd entered the tomb. Years later, when he'd become the leader of an international crime syndicate and had learned the art of deception from a myriad of bad influences, Malik had still been unable to keep his feelings from his siblings.

When Isis had met her brothers after discovering their father's body, Malik had been completely guileless. Even now in his sinisterly calm state, Isis was sure that he wouldn't be able to conceal something so important from her. At this point she could almost imagine him bragging about it, but not hiding it. If Malik had indeed murdered their father, he had done it unknowingly, under an outside influence be it the Millennium Rod or the stranger with the Ankh. Rishid was protecting him from the truth. Despite how unnerving the shadowy figure before her was, Isis reminded herself that it was still her little brother. She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"Unless your idea involves marching inside right now, I'm not interested."

Malik pressed on, unimpressed by Isis' attempt at authority. "The stranger said that the Pharaoh's time is almost at hand and that I was going down the dark road of the Pharaoh. What if he meant that it is my destiny to become the Pharaoh?"

Rishid and Isis stood in dumbfounded silence. The only sound to be heard was the buzz of flies attracted to their blood-soaked clothing. Neither sibling had known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.

In retrospect, Isis knew that she should have kept her mouth shut and let Rishid handle the situation. When it came right down to it he was better at calming Malik than she was. But it had been such a long and horrible day, and she had been so busy dealing with Rishid and Malik that she had not yet experienced any of the appropriate shock and grief. In the span of about six hours, her life had shattered around her, and she hadn't even cried yet. Raw emotion was building up inside of her and the dam was beginning to crack.

"Master Malik, I think if we try to discuss-"

"Shut up, Malik! That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard!"

Malik gaped at her. For as long as he could remember, both of his older siblings had seemed more like adults than children. This was the first time he had ever seen Isis act like a kid. In fact, this was the first time he had ever seen anyone besides himself act like a kid.

"No, you shut up!" Malik blurted out, his train of thought only briefly derailed. "My idea is really good! I know I'm not the real Pharaoh, but I can become him. I can use the Millennium Rod, and you can use the Torc, and we can seek out the other Millennium Items and find the three gods and bring back the Pharaoh, then I can banish him and become the new Pharaoh and rule. And I would be a good king, and I would never make anyone live underground!"

"Malik, I… how can…?" Isis tried to reign her emotions back in. "I don't think you know what you are talking about," she finally managed. But it sounded for all the world like he did. How many nights had Malik laid awake imagining this heresy? "He's the rightful ruler and you know it."

"Master, think about this," Rishid interjected. "If his time is at hand like the stranger said, then we will welcome him and escort him to the afterlife. And then we will be free! Think about that. If the stranger is right, our time protecting the Tomb will soon be over and you can live in the light. Isn't that something to be joyful about?"

There was a pregnant pause. Isis watched Malik and waited for his reaction. If that did not sway him, then she knew nothing would. Finally, Malik spoke.

"No." His voice was once again full of quiet anger.

"'No'? What do you mean, 'no'?" Isis demanded, exasperated.

"That is not good enough," Malik hissed. "I already told you, sister. He does not deserve to just wake up and be at peace, not when we have suffered for so long. I will not be satisfied until he knows my pain. I will send him to the afterlife, but I will send him on his hands and knees."

Malik looked upwards. The sun was now almost completely set and stars were beginning to twinkle in the inky desert night. "Isis, Rishid, it's so beautiful," Malik whispered. The last sliver of sunlight reflected off his hair as it fluttered in the breeze, wreathing him in a crown of light. He slowly turned back to his siblings. "Help me," he whispered. "I can bring the Pharaoh to justice and claim our reward. But I need your help."

A chill began to spread throughout Isis' body. This was still Malik and not the monster who had killed their father, but that somehow made everything worse. Malik, her beloved brother, was choosing this corrupt path for himself.

"Master," Rishid whispered. "Is there anything I can say or do to convince you to choose a different way?" His voice was hoarse and hopeful. Isis wondered what he would do when Malik answered the way she knew he inevitably would.

"This is my decision, Rishid," he responded. "I will not be swayed."

"Very well," Rishid said and smiled. Isis held her breath and waited for him to react. She knew that he would do the right thing. Rishid was loyal to a fault, true enough, but he had sworn to protect Malik. Surely, he would never let their little brother make such a terrible mistake.

Isis trusted Rishid completely, which is why his blow caught her so off-guard. It was hardly more than a firm push but so unexpected that it caused Isis to fall backward. As she flailed to regain her balance Rishid took advantaged of her weakened grip on the Millennium Rod and snatched it out of her hand. She hit the sandy ground and scrambled to stand back up, but it was too late. Rishid had already handed the Millennium Rod to Malik.

"I swore to serve you," Rishid said as he once again touched his scarred face. "I will keep that promise. I shall follow where you lead."

"Rishid, how could you?!" Isis cried. Unbidden tears welled in her eyes. "Malik please, give that back! You barely know how to use it!"

Malik shook his head. "Sister, I'm giving you one last chance," he said. "I beg you, come with us. You deserve to be free! Come with us, please?"

"No!" she said, pain saturating her voice. "I won't let you do this!" Without giving herself time to think, Isis lunged for the Millennium Rod.

Instead of clearing the five or so feet with ease, she crashed hard to the desert ground once again. However, this time she found herself unable to rise no matter how hard she tried. She swiveled her eyes, the only part of her that seemed capable of movement, up to her brothers. Malik was pointing the Millennium Rod at her.

"Stand up," he commanded. She obeyed.

"Br'th'r," she mumbled through lips that did not want to part. "Pl'se…"

"I gave you a chance, but you won't see reason. You may stay in the dark if you wish, but you will not make me."

Isis struggled against Malik's influence. The powers of the Rod were still new to him. After several years and much practice, he would be able to completely control most victims, turning them into puppets incapable of accessing their own thoughts and feelings. But this was only his second time to use the Rod, and the first time to use it in his right mind. Isis could still move her eyes, speak in slurs, and even twitch a few muscles, and her mind was completely her own. She looked imploringly at Rishid.

"R'sh'd," she burbled. "Plis, 'elp me."

Rishid looked away from her. "I'm sorry, Miss Isis," he mumbled. "But I promised to serve Master Malik."

"What ab't me?" The tears were now streaming down her face. "Y'r my br'th'r, too."

"Silence," Malik ordered, and her lips sealed tightly together. "Now, I order you to walk into the Tomb."

Isis' body walked itself to the entrance and began to descend the steps. Her legs spasmed painfully as she resisted Malik's control over her, but all that her efforts amounted to was a twisted ankle. When she reached the floor, she heard Malik and Rishid whispering above her. Isis couldn't make out any words but their tones suggested that they were debating something. After a few minutes of waiting, she heard a dull grinding sound above her. The soft light from the desert began to fade as her brothers closed the Tomb doors. As darkness engulfed her, she heard Malik call out one last order. "Wait there." She did.

Isis stood alone in the dark for what felt like a lifetime. The stench of old blood wafted through the tomb and nauseated her. Soon she began to cry in silence, the salty tears and sand still clinging to her from the fall mingling together and rubbing her face raw. She prayed to all the gods and all the kings that her brothers would change their minds and come back for her, but they never did. The pain of their betrayal hurt as badly as, if not worse than, the pain of her father's death. Her father had merely been a looming shadow in the background. Malik and Rishid had been her entire life. She loved them and had thought that they surely must love her, too. But they had abandoned her in the dark.

After more than two hours, Malik's control over her broke. The sudden lack of restraint caused her to fall forward onto the flagstones. She curled up and began to sob in earnest. After everything that she had been through, weeping so openly felt almost euphorically good. Isis knew that there were matters of grave importance she needed to attend, but at that moment her body needed to express at least some of the day's trauma.

Eventually Isis' sobs subsided enough for her to take stock of the situation. She was alone in the Tomb with just her father's body and the Millennium Torc. This struck her as odd. Malik had seemed drunk with the power of the Millennium Rod. Why would he pass on the opportunity to control both of the Items? She wondered if that's what they had argued about before shutting the doors, if Rishid had possibly interceded on her behalf, but thinking of them caused a fresh wave of sorrow to course through her. Instead, she simply counted herself lucky that they hadn't taken the Torc as well.

Isis rose unsteadily to her feet, legs still aching from the long hours she spent frozen, and set to the unpleasant tasks at hand. While she lacked the strength to move her father's body to the ritual room to await his funeral rites, she could at least clean the blood up and make him more respectable. She found a bottle of strong vinegar, a handful of scrubbing rags, and a linen sheet, and then began to make her way to the Millennium chamber, pausing here and there to wipe up the odd speck of blood. As she drew closer to the Millennium chamber the smell of coagulating blood became unbearable. Isis stopped to rub a few drops of vinegar under her nose. It made her skin itch and her sinuses burn, but anything was better than the rusty stench of old blood.

Isis paused before entering the Millennium chamber, dreading what awaited her inside. When she had awakened there earlier, her desperation to find Malik and Rishid had prevented her from fully absorbing the gruesome details around her. This time there would be no distractions, leaving her to face the reality of the situation. She took a deep, vinegary breath and entered the room.

First, she saw the flies. Isis had noticed a few buzzing around her as she approached but was taken aback by the massive swarm that covered the remains of her father. She noted with horror the way they explored his open mouth and eyes, and reveled in the pool of blood beneath him. That was the next thing she saw; the blood. It had changed from a viscous red to a dark, sticky brown and was splattered across the room. She took another step forward and felt the blood sucking at the sole of her shoe. Even with the vinegar under her nose, the stench was overwhelming. Unable to stop herself, Isis turned away from her father's body and vomited.

After a few minutes of retching, she poured the entire contents of the vinegar jar onto the floor and began to scrub up the mess. As she worked she forced herself to think of other things lest she become sick again. Her thoughts invariably turned to the Millennium Torc. Occasionally Isis would glance up at the necklace and found it miraculously untouched by the blood that had spattered over the rest of the room. Candlelight danced across the Wadjet Eye making it shimmer beguilingly. Isis felt like it was watching her.

Finally, Isis finished with the floor and walls. They still reeked and seemed to give off a greasy sheen, but at the moment it was the best that she could do. She wiped her stained hands on her tunic, trying to ignore the rust-red streaks they left, and turned to her father's body. For a moment Isis considered trying to clean him up as well, but as soon as she knelt beside him she began to heave again. Instead, she settled for draping the clean linen over him.

As Isis began to leave, she once again felt the strange sensation of being observed. She turned and saw the Millennium Torc sitting in its holder, the Wadjet Eye twinkling as if it was alive. As she stared at it an unbidden thought sprang to the forefront of her mind: she wanted to touch it. No, she needed to touch it. For some reason the idea of holding it, of feeling the cool gold against her skin, of wearing it around her neck seemed almost impossible to resist. What was so strange was that she had never once felt the urge to hold either of the Millennium Items before that moment. Isis had always known that the Torc belonged to her father and would be passed directly to Malik and not given it a second thought. But now, alone in the darkness, the desire to hold the Torc was painfully tempting.

Isis cautiously approached the holders, unsure of what she would do when she got there. The Wadjet Eye gazed innocuously up at her. She reached out and hesitated with her hand hovering over it. This is ridiculous, she thought. You don't really want to take the Millennium Torc. You're just tired and grieving, and want it because it's familiar. The painful truth of the thought caused a lump to form in her throat and tears to well back in her eyes. The Torc really was the only constant in her life that had not been torn away from her. Of course she wanted to hold onto it. It wasn't calling to her; she was simply craving comfort.

And what is the harm in that? she asked herself. That afternoon she had held onto the Millennium Rod for quite a while and nothing had happened. Simply allowing herself to hold the Torc for a while surely would not be any different. In fact, the notion of wearing it seemed somehow correct, as if it was the proper thing to do. Isis ignored the memory of Malik's hungry expression as he stared at the Millennium Rod. This was completely different. He had wanted to use the Rod for power and revenge. All Isis wanted was to find some peace. She didn't even want to use the Torc's powers and had no idea how it worked in any case.

Isis glanced down at the remains of her father. Technically, her handling the Millennium Torc was a breach of Ishtar family tradition, but after everything that had happened such a small transgression hardly seemed relevant. "Forgive me, Father," she whispered and reached out for the Torc. Her fingers had just brushed the Torc when-

HEAT  
DESERT  
PAIN  
CARDS  
EXPLOSIONS  
GODS  
"Isis Ishtar."  
MILLENNIUM ITEMS  
MONSTERS  
DRAGONS  
A BLUE EYED MAN  
A BOY WITH FIREY HAIRS  
TONE  
"You are my chosen bearer."  
WIND  
FLYING  
VICTORY  
RISHID DEAD  
MALIK DEVOURED  
"Behold our fate."  
DARKNESS  
DARKNESS  
DARKNESS  
DARKNESS


	2. Chapter 2: Oasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for being so patient. Here's chapter 2. I hope you enjoy it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's note:
> 
> I have a few.
> 
> I know in the anime it says that Isis/Ishizu has never been outside before that one day. But she knew her way to the village, she knew what a TV was, what a magazine was, and what a motorcycle was. Clearly she has been outside.
> 
> Also, I have no idea whether a rural village in mid-90s Egypt could get satellite TV from Cairo. But this is a fanfic based on a story where the Egyptian gods are real and the world is changed by card games. It moved the plot along nicely, so I went with it.
> 
> And finally, thanks to my readers. You're the best!)

Chapter 2: Oasis

Isis sighed and began to massage her neck. Though the Millennium Torc was relatively small the gold could feel quite heavy. If she went too long without shifting its position the Wadjet Eye would sometimes leave a red patch on her skin. Sleeping with it could be downright painful.

She began to shrug her shoulders, savoring the lightness of the motion. Isis was naturally protective of the Torc. Over the last couple years she had developed the habit of clenching her neck, back, and shoulder muscles as if she could somehow shield the Torc from harm. She had only discovered her bad posture a few weeks earlier. As she began to assemble the necessary clothing for her impending job interview, she had become more conscious of her appearance. While looking at her reflection in a shop window she noticed how tightly the muscles in her shoulders were bunched and how her clavicles, which were already overly pronounced due to malnutrition, appeared to jut out. She had started imitating the posture of the models in her stolen business magazines (which she followed with the same devotion as she had the sacred texts) and soon found that walking with her shoulders back and her chin up was much harder than she had anticipated. But now, without the physical and mental weight of the Millennium Torc around her neck, it seemed much easier.

Isis let her head loll forward and backward and grinned as her neck made a satisfying 'pop.' A slight twinge of pain at her temples reminded her that there was one last part of the professional ensemble to undo. With the exception of the uncomfortable shoes this was the part that Isis had most been looking forward to removing. With rare, unabashed glee she dashed to the bathroom and began to unpin her hair. While uncomfortable, her hairstyle (half down and half up in a sleek bun, in strict accordance with the business magazines' style suggestions) had been easy to replicate. In the Tomb she had mastered much more intricate hairstyles for ceremonial occasions. These modern clips were so much easier to use than the leather cords, gold ornaments, and straight metal pins she'd had to work with back then.

As Isis removed the bobby pins she made sure to lay them neatly on the sink rim. It had taken her hours of searching the streets to find enough of them in usable condition, and she knew how easy it was to misplace them. She remembered the time Rishid had trodden on a sharp bronze pin that had somehow ended up on the floor and cringed. Sometimes she could almost understand why her brothers had abandoned her.

When she had finished removing the last of the pins Isis angled the bathroom door further inward to get a better view of herself in the chipped mirror. She smiled wearily at her reflection. Her bright pink athletic shorts and old shirt looked, as always, ridiculous. The sample makeup that she had so carefully applied in the European cosmetics store that morning had migrated around her face during the long, hot walk from downtown to the low-rent apartments. The top layer of her hair was kinked and curled from being pinned up all day. It floated over the straight layer like a storm cloud. The whole look was completed by the ring of pale skin around her neck which ended in a bright red blotch between her collar bones.

If she was being charitable, Isis would say that the overall look put her in mind of a 1980s glam band member. If she was being honest, she would say it put her in mind of a homeless clown.

'What would my family say if they saw me like this?' Isis wondered. It was probably best not to speculate. She rubbed her eyes in an attempt to remove the streaky mascara, but all she managed to do was smear it further. As she looked in the mirror at her now black-rimmed eyes, Isis was taken aback. The last time she had lined her eyes was for a ceremony on the eve of Malik's initiation. She had been only thirteen and, despite the weight of her responsibilities, still only a young child. Now, four years older and a lifetime more mature, she was shocked at the woman who stared back at her.

The woman staring back at her was her mother.

Isis did not have many solid memories of her mother, the night of Malik's birth being the exception, but what she did remember was wonderful. Her hair had been long and sleek; her skin was rich and brown, darker than her father's. Her eyes changed from blue to green to blue again in Isis mind. She hated that she could not recall their exact shade, but she would never forget how the dark kohl made them dance. Her mother had also worn fragrance. When she was much younger, Isis had found the half-used perfume bottles in her father's chambers and inhaled the spicy scent until her head spun. Occasionally Isis found reasons to cut through Cairo's spice market where she would linger near the cardamom and cinnamon stalls and let herself be overtaken by the aromas and the foggy yet blissful memories they evoked.

Rishid had remarked on several occasions that Isis shared many qualities with her mother, particularly her snub nose and the shape of her eyes. She had always assumed that he was just trying to comfort her and had not taken him too seriously. Now the accuracy of Rishid's comparison was too obvious to dismiss. As she stared at her reflection in awe, Isis found herself unable to stop smiling.

She carefully wiped the excess mascara off her cheeks and smudged it into delicate points at the corners of her eyes. The results were far from perfect but close enough for the moment. The business magazines had cautioned against dark eye makeup, claiming that it could make the wearer look older than she was. However, Isis found that the look quite suited her. In any case, looking older could only help her situation. She ran her fingers through her hair until the kinks from the pins disappeared, then retrieved her duffel bag from the living room. While most of her possessions were necessities, Isis had saved two small luxuries. She retrieved a cloth bundle from the bottom of the bag and unwrapped it for the first time since leaving the Tomb.

Isis slept curled up in a tight ball. Somehow she had managed to find her bedroom through a haze of delirium. The power from the vision had drained more energy than she knew she had to spare. She toppled into bed in a stupor, still clutching the Torc so tightly it hurt. Even in her fatigued state the idea of letting it go was unbearable. 'We are one.' Isis was unsure whether the thought came from her or the Torc, but it didn't really matter. Regardless of how it arrived, she knew it was true. The Torc had very emphatically chosen her to bear it. "Just sleep," she mumbled to herself, already feeling her consciousness slip away. The servants would arrive in the morning. They would know what to do. Her only job now was to sleep.

It seemed like Isis had just drifted off when she was awoken by a fresh wave of visions. They coursed through her, filling her mind with unbidden images of the immediate future.

The servants arrive. They find her father's body. They see that the Millennium Items are missing. They search for Malik. They see that Malik is missing. They search for Isis. They find her with the Millennium Torc. They assume the worst. She tries to explain. They will not listen. Her father is dead. Her brother is missing. She is covered in blood. She has a forbidden item. Her face is burned from the sun. She has broken so many family laws. She tries to run. They catch her easily. They strike her. They pry the Millennium Torc out of her grasp. They strike her again. Then nothing.  
"Run.  
Run.  
RUN."

Isis gripped her head with her free hand and gasped for breath. At some point during the vision she had fallen out of her bed and was now lying on the floor in a heap. With shaking legs, she clambered to her feet. She wanted so badly to disbelieve the horrible vision. Most of the servants were practically family members. Or they had been.

According to Rishid, their father had once been a warm and loving man. The death of his wife had changed him. Isis found this hard to believe, but Rishid swore it was true. After her mother had died, her father had begun to treat the family traditions like a refuge from his grief. First the extended family members had been banished from the tomb for some transgression, though nobody besides their father knew what it was. Isis vaguely remembered that she had an aunt and a possibly cousins, but she hadn't seen them since she was about five. Next he had begun to limit the servants' access to the Tomb. They used to visit the family several times a week to make sure they were doing well and provide Isis and her siblings with much needed social activity. But these friendly visitations were not in the texts. Now the servants only came at most once a week to bring in supplies and take away waste, and even then they had very limited interactions with the family. Only Isis was allowed to speak to them beyond what was absolutely necessary. This was so she could learn to provide for the family and manage the servants when she came of age. Malik was prohibited from seeing or speaking to them at all, lest he become contaminated with ideas of the outside world. Finally, her father had begun to dismiss certain servants for things like being "too loud," or "too familiar" with the family. Now there were only a few servants remaining, most of whom were cold and distant.

Isis had seen the faces of the servants in the vision. There had been two of them; an older man and a boy only a few years older than her. The man was Nizam, the Tradition Master. It was the duty of the Tradition Master to ensure that the Ishtar family rituals were followed accurately from generation to generation. He acted as an impartial moderator who could advise the family and ease their burden when necessary. Should something happen to the current Tomb Keeper before his heir was prepared to assume the sacred tasks, it was the Tradition Master's job to temporarily accept the position of Tomb Keeper and continue to bring up the heir until he was of age. He held almost as much importance as the Tomb Keeper and was the only servant who still spoke regularly with her father.

Isis remembered the previous Tradition Master, Ob, with fondness. He had been a large, good natured man who told wonderful stories and always brought them gifts. A few years after her mother's death, her father had declared that his wild tales and trinkets from the outside were distracting Malik from his duties. Ob had argued that banning all symbols of the surface from Malik would just make it more tantalizing, but their father refused to hear it. Soon after, Ob was banished from the Tomb and replaced with Nizam.

Occasionally a vulture would land on the rim of the light well to rest. They always put Isis in mind of Nizam. He was tall, lean, and appeared to lurk rather than walk. His austerity rivaled her father's. It seemed to Isis that for several days following their meetings, her father's mood would darken and he would become extra sensitive to disobedience, both real and imagined. She was also sure she had seen Nizam lingering near the sacred chamber where the Millennium Items were held. Once she had even seen him slip into the sacred chamber when she knew her father was in a different wing of the Tomb. She had told Rishid, but he cautioned her not to trouble their father with it saying that Nizam was probably just studying the texts in the room. Though Rishid's reasoning made sense, Isis could not shake her distrust of Nizam.

The boy, Paki, was a newer servant. She didn't know him very well but something about him made her uncomfortable. First off, he was always with Nizam. It was beginning to feel like he was Nizam's protégée. Up until that point, Rishid had been the likely candidate for the next Tradition Master. The notion of someone robbing Rishid of that position, which he both wanted and deserved, bothered Isis. Despite her father's insistence that he was a mere servant, she viewed Rishid as her brother and always would. If he could not be a Tomb Keeper like he wanted, Tradition Master was the next best thing. Nobody could be as suited for it as Rishid. The idea that a newcomer could come in and claim it was ridiculous and so unfair.

Then there was the way he looked at her. While Nizam's gaze seemed to linger on the Millennium Items, Paki's gaze seemed to longer on her. He had recently developed a tendency to always be near her. When she was talking to a group of servants, he was beside her. When she was putting new food away in the kitchen, he would somehow be chosen to help her. In the last few weeks she had started to touch her. It was nothing overt, nothing she could point out without feeling foolishly paranoid (or so she thought), but it was there. Somehow he'd "accidentally" brush against her hip while passing her, or nudge her chest while gesturing. Sheltered though she was, Isis had enough common sense to know that something was off.

Though Isis hated to admit it, she could easily imagine both of them fulfilling her vision. Paki had been the one to catch her. Though her vision had been brief, the sensation of his arms wrapping around her and his body pressing against her had been all too vivid. Nizam had been the one to interrogate her and take the Torc away, and she had seen the eagerness on his face as he claimed it.

A twinge from the Torc jolted Isis back into the presence. This time it wasn't a full vision. It was almost, but not quite, an unspoken command. "Go now. Run," the Torc said. But it did not use words, exactly. It was as if a thought had arrived in her mind without her having to think it. The effect was disconcerting to say the least, but there would be time to worry about it later. She had no idea what time it was or when Nizam and Paki would be arriving. All she knew was that she wanted to be as far away from them as possible. She changed into a clean tunic, secured the Millennium Torc around her neck, and set to work.

She packed only what she thought was essential: a change of clothing, charcoal paste for her teeth, a few sponge wedges, some dried dates and lentils, and a skin canteen of water were all shoved into a linen bag from the kitchen. When her bag was full she began to make her way to the Tomb entrance but found her progress difficult. It occurred to her that this might be her last time in the Tomb for quite a while. She pressed her hand to the Torc in an attempt to find out if she would ever be back, but saw nothing more than a few blurry images that made her head spin. On an impulse she turned on her heel and darted back towards their living quarters.

As she ran the Millennium Torc clambered for her attention. The thoughts "wrong. Leave. Run away," were implanted directly into her mind without having to travel via her ears.

"I just need one thing!" Isis said aloud. "You have to let me just take one thing to remember them by. Be fair!" The Torc said nothing but she sensed a grudging acceptance. Whether it was real or imagined was unclear.

Instead of going into her own room, she went into Rishid's and began to frantically fish under his bed until she found what she was looking for. One of the gifts that Ob had brought them was a Polaroid camera. Naturally their father had confiscated and destroyed it, but Rishid had managed to stash away a few photographs. Isis pulled the bundle of shiny paper out and sorted through them until she found the photo that she wanted. Ob had taken it to demonstrate how to use the camera. It was a picture of the three siblings. Rishid, who was in his early teens, was smiling serenely. Isis, who was six, was staring wide-eyed at the camera with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Malik, a toddler, was on Rishid's lap and clearly basking in the glow of the attention.

Isis smiled in spite of herself. The photograph was a perfect representation of her family. It was how she wanted to remember her time in the Tomb.

She slipped the picture into her bag and began to make her way back to the Tomb entrance, but once again paused. This time it was in front of her father's chamber. She had told the Torc she would only stop for one thing, but there was something else she wanted.

Though her father was gone, Isis found herself tip-toeing into the chamber. When she was much younger she had snuck into his room to play with her mother's makeup and the memory of her punishment still made her cringe.

Her father's chamber was a collection of rooms. Most of them were sparsely furnished and devoid of personality. The most intimate items to be seen were a sacred text and an open journal beside it. Despite the severity of the majority of her father's living quarters there was one room, hardly bigger than a closet, which held treasure beyond Isis' wildest dreams. Slowly and reverently, she opened the door.

Even after years of disuse the room smelled of cardamom and cinnamon. Dresses and robes lined one wall and on another rested a shelf of cosmetics, books, and personal items. The farthest wall was covered in drawings. Isis delicately took one down and gazed at it. Three smiling figures were drawn in blotchy ink and ochre. "Mother, Father, and Rishid – Our Family!" had been written neatly at the bottom by an adult. It looked like her father's handwriting.

For a moment Isis considered closing the door and sealing herself within. There were over fifty chambers in the Tomb, many of which had multiple rooms. It could take Nizam and Paki hours to find her, by which time she could formulate a plan and… and…

And what?

Nizam was plotting to steal the Millennium Items, Isis was sure of it. She was now the only thing standing between him and the Torc and she was too exhausted to defend it against two men. Even if she was able to convince Nizam of her innocence there was no heir and no Millennium Rod. After three millennia, the Ishtars had failed in their sacred duty. There was no point in staying. It was time to claim her inheritance and leave.

It took a few minutes of rummaging for Isis to find what she had come for. Eventually she came across a gold headband with an emerald set in the middle tucked away in an ornate jewelry box. It had been a gift to her mother from the Ishtar family on her wedding day. She slipped it into her bag, took one last breath of fragrance, and left the Tomb.

The just rising sun confirmed her suspicions about how little she had slept. She estimated that, after being paralyzed, cleaning up the Millennium Chamber, and claiming the Millennium Torc, she'd finally stumbled into bed sometime during the end of third watch (about 3 am). This only amounted to roughly three hours of sleep which, even at her best, was far from ideal. But fatigue was the least of her problems. Isis had no idea where to go. Based on her vision, the homes of the servants were probably out of the question. Besides, she didn't know where they lived. There was her aunt, but Isis hadn't seen her in a decade and likewise didn't know where she lived, or even what she looked like.

It seemed that the nearby village was her best bet, though she had no idea what to do once she arrived. She had no allies, no money, and no plan. A small part of her hoped to find Malik and Rishid there but she felt that this was unlikely. Still, she longed for them so badly it hurt.

I should have just gone with them, she thought treacherously. What they were doing was wrong, but at least they had each other. It occurred to Isis that she was completely alone in the world. Biting back tears, she turned toward the village and began to walk.

Isis had only made it a few steps when the Millennium Torc interrupted her with another command. "Hide." Without hesitation she ducked under a fallen time obelisk. No sooner had she concealed herself than she heard the soft voices of Nizam and Paki as they approached the Tomb. Isis wedged herself deeper between the stone and sand while contriving to breathe as quietly as possible.

Though the Torc had told her to get out quickly Isis had expected a little more time than this. The servants didn't typically arrive so early. She peeked through the tiny gap between the fallen obelisk and the ground and noticed that they didn't have any groceries or supplies with them. That was suspicious to say the least. Come to think of it, the fact that Paki and Nizam were coming that day at all was odd. The servants who brought their groceries were almost always women.

"-and see that you don't crowd Isis," she overheard Nizam say in hushed tones. "We can't have you making her uncomfortable. Her consent is not necessary but it will make things much easier. And act humble during our meeting. Ishtar will never agree to this if he thinks you're anything but a peon."

"You don't have to remind me," Paki mumbled.

Isis scowled in confusion. She wanted to know more about this meeting and what they wanted her father to agree to. Probably that Paki be named the next Traditions Master. She didn't see how this involved her, but it no longer mattered anyway.

Paki hauled the Tomb doors open and the men descended into darkness. Isis heard Nizam hiss, "What in the hell is that stench?!" as the doors closed with a thud behind them. As soon as the doors were sealed the Millennium Torc sent Isis a vision. This time it was a full, all-encompassing vision instead of what she had begun to think of as "premonitions."

Paki and Nizam feel sick from the reek of blood, vinegar, and rot. They follow the scent to the Millennium Chamber. They discover her father under the sheet. They see that both Millennium Items are missing. They search for Isis and her siblings in their rooms. They do not find them. They go back to the entrance. They see too much sand on the steps into the Tomb. They see that the rope alarm has been disturbed. They know how to open the doors without triggering it. They go outside to search.

"Run. Leave. GO."

Isis was hurled back into the present. She took only a moment to regain her bearings, then grabbed her bag and began to run full tilt toward the village. Based on the vision she had at most a ten-minute head start. On top of that, Nizam and Paki were probably rested and well fed while she was operating on three hours of sleep and had not eaten in almost a day. She hoped vainly that they would be unable to tell which way she went, but between her footprints in the pristine sand and the fact that running into the desert without any means of navigation would be certain death, it was pretty obvious.

For what felt like the hundredth time in two days she found herself thinking that she should be terrified, but adrenaline was preventing her from processing the fear. Isis was dimly aware that there would be a physical and emotional toll to pay later but for the moment she felt as calm as she ever had. She decided to take advantage of the fleeting clarity and began to formulate a plan as she ran. She could find somewhere to hide while Paki and Nizam searched for her. Once they had gone she could look for Malik and Rishid. In the meantime, she could work at one of the stalls in the bazaar in exchange for food and a house. Maybe she could even hire her own servants to protect her and help find her brothers.

It would not be long before Isis learned how terribly naive her plan was, but she had only been to the surface a few times over just the past year and while she had read many texts about Egyptian culture, they were outdated by a few millennia. She had next to no idea how modern society operated.

After about a mile, Isis made it to the village bazaar. She leaned against the back of a stall and clutched her now aching side. Though she had only covered a relatively short distance, it was the longest she had ever run and she'd done it at a near sprint over shifting sands while wearing flat-soled canvas shoes. Her adrenaline rush was rapidly melting into fatigue. At least the Millennium Torc seemed inclined to let her rest for a few minutes. She sunk to the ground and gazed at her surroundings.

This was the emptiest she had ever seen the streets. The merchants were just beginning to open their shops for the day. Whether this was an asset or a hindrance, Isis couldn't say. It would make blending in much harder, but asking shop vendors about her brothers and the possibility of work much easier. In any case, she couldn't wait around forever. Isis was sure that it would only be a matter of minutes before her pursuers arrived. Gently, her muscles protesting every inch of the way, she rose to her feet and walked around the stall into the central street.

Or she would have if somebody had not been blocking her path.

"Good morning, Miss Ishtar," came a soft and all-too-familiar voice. "I see that the wheels of fate are in motion."

A pit of frozen dread opened in her stomach. Isis forced herself to look up into the oddly passive eyes of the Stranger. If she had not been so physically and mentally exhausted she might have been able to remember that the Stranger seemed to know about her family and their sacred duty. She might have sought his help, or at least asked him what he knew. She certainly would not have screamed and run past him at a dead sprint. However, this is exactly what she did.

Isis didn't notice that she had not run past the Stranger but through him. Fatigue and panic have a way of glossing over fine details like that. The fact that the Millennium Torc chose that instant to give her another premonition did not help matters either.

"They are here!" it screamed in her mind.

Isis ran on wings of fear into the middle of the bazaar, all of the servants' warnings about staying quiet and unassuming in public completely abandoned. She heard somebody shouting something, but she could not make out whom or what they were yelling. Though her eyes were wide open in terror, she was finding it difficult to see. Black spots were beginning to float across her vision. It hardly mattered. Direction was only a distraction from her main goal: putting as much distance as possible between herself and the Stranger, Nizam, and Paki. She rounded a corner blindly and found herself in a closed-off ally of stalls. There was nowhere she could go. A hand landed on her shoulder. She whirled around to face her assailant, but her vision was now cloudy as well as spotty.

"Isis?" said a vaguely familiar voice. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

It was the last thing Isis heard before she fell forward into waiting arms.

Isis had somehow made it to a bed. She was vaguely aware that she should be doing something but her head seemed to be full of fog. Anyway, the bed was incredibly comfortable and the room was cool and dark. Someone had even put a damp cloth on her forehead. Whatever it was she had to do could wait. She clumsily swiped the cloth away, turned onto her side, and sank into a deep sleep.

Isis awoke to the smell of cooking food. Her stomach twisted and turned, demanding to be fed. She ignored the almost painful hunger and groggily tried to recall what had happened. The last thing she remembered was running from the Stranger, Paki and Nizam. There had been shouting, someone had grabbed her shoulder, and then she was here.

But where was "here?" She was lying in a ridiculously comfortable bed. It was soft, and warm, and seemed to pull her back into it when she tried to sit up. It was nothing like the straw-stuffed cot she was used to. Through the gloom she could make out ruffles and flounces covering the blankets. They practically radiated the color pink. The walls were coated in a layer of what looked like giant versions of her Polaroid photograph. Most of them depicted groups of people dancing and singing. Like the room where her mother's belongings were stored, this room also gave off a distinctive scent. Instead of warm spices it smelled… violently fruity. It was as if every piece of fruit in the world had joined forces and attacked her sinuses. All told, it was the strangest room Isis had ever seen in her admittedly limited experience.

Somehow she could not picture Nizam or Paki having a room like this. She certainly could not picture either of them leaving a glass of water and a bowl of dried fruit and nuts for her on the bedside table, which she began to eat gratefully.

"Oh good, you're up," came a gentle voice. "We were starting to worry."

Isis froze with a seeping handful of almonds and figs halfway to her mouth. In the doorway stood a woman she recognized as a shop owner in the bazaar.

"Mrs. Rahal?" Isis said, her voice gravely with sleep. "What… what…" There were so many questions she wanted to ask, so many things she needed to know, but she couldn't think of where to start. She settled for, "what happened?"

Mrs. Rahal turned the electric lights on. "I was hoping you could tell me," she answered. "You came sprinting past our stall and froze in the dead end. You were absolutely panicked. Then I went to check on you and you fainted dead away."

Isis blushed with embarrassment at the thought of fainting practically on top of Mrs. Rahal. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Rahal," she said. "I hope I did not inconvenience you terribly."

Mrs. Rahal smiled kindly at her. "It was no inconvenience, I promise. And please, call me Farah. Anyway, no matter where you fainted I would have found you. It actually made things much easier for me that you did it in front of our shop." Farah and her daughter, Aquilah, ran a small pharmacy in the bazaar. Over the past year Isis had become quite familiar with them. They sold an amazing balm that helped soothe Malik and Rishid's scars when they started to ache (which still happened frequently due to the invasive nature and long pigmentation process of the Tomb Keeper's Ritual. The buildup of scar tissue sometimes made Rishid's facial muscles so tight that he couldn't comfortable close his left eye).

Farah sat on the edge of the bed and handed two white disks to Isis. "Take these," she prompted. "You were so overheated. I'm sure you have a headache."

Isis popped the disks into her mouth and began to chew them. She was immediately assaulted by a horrible, bitter taste. "Whoa!" Farah said in alarm. "Don't chew those! Here!" she passed Isis the glass of water. "Have you… have you never taken Aspirin before?"

"Does it use unnatural ingredients?" Isis asked after she washed the acrid taste away.

"A few chemicals, but nothing too extreme," answered Farah. "Why?"

"My family does not like to use unnatural medicine," Isis responded, hoping that this didn't make her sound too strange.

"Ah," Farah sighed in good-natured exasperation. "You're a homeopath. The movement was growing in Cairo before we left, but I didn't think we would find any out here in the desert." Isis had no idea what she was talking about but it seemed like a convenient way to explain her potentially suspicious behavior. "It's a good thing that aloe cream you love is all natural," Farah continued. "It looks like you could use some. That necklace is rubbing your skin raw."

Isis' hand leapt to her throat. The Millennium Torc had not made a peep since she passed out and she had all but forgotten about it. To her immense relief if was still there, but her neck did indeed ache from where the Wadjet Eye had been digging into her skin as she slept.

"It must be very important. You were out cold but still swatted my hand whenever I tried to take it off."

"It is a family heirloom," Isis explained. It wasn't technically a lie. "I cannot lose it."

Farah smiled nodded. "Iman gave Aquilah his mother's bracelet a few weeks ago. I only hope she's as careful with it as you are with your necklace. Speaking of family…" Farah's expression became concerned again. "Where is your mom? I had someone look around the market for Nafre but she was nowhere to be found."

Up until the previous day, every time Isis had gone to town it had been with Nafre, one of the few remaining female servants her family employed. It made sense that people would assume they were mother and daughter. Still, it made Isis uncomfortable. She liked Nafre well enough, though she tended to be stern and cold out of fear of Master Ishtar. But the memory of her mother was sacred. And now Isis was unsure whether she could trust her anymore. Nizam had undoubtedly begun to poison the other servants against her.

"Nafre is not my mother," Isis explained. "She is a family friend. Or, she was a family friend. I don't think so anymore. It is complicated."

Farah frowned. "Complicated, huh?" she said. "Why don't you start from the beginning and tell me everything you can."

It occurred to Isis that this conversation was going to become difficult. Farah had every right to be curious but Isis could only tell her so much. Despite everything, she knew that she could not betray her family's secret. She had a feeling that nobody would believe her anyway. But Farah seemed trustworthy. Isis still wasn't sure exactly how the Millennium Torc worked, but she had a feeling that it would warn her if Farah Rahal posed a threat. So far it had been silent. Isis owed her as much truth as she could get away with for all her help. She decided to try her best to explain the situation without betraying the Pharaoh.

"I am in trouble," she said quietly. "My father is… he is gone. So are my brothers. And our friends who we trusted are after me. They are trying to steal my family's prized possessions," her hand drifted unconsciously to her neck. "But I cannot let them find me. I…" she broke off as tears filled her eyes. She stared intently at the ruffled bedspread in an attempt to keep herself from crying. "I want to tell you more, but I can't. I am sorry, Mrs. Farah."

She waited for Farah's reaction. The woman had brought Isis into her home and tended to her while she slept for hours. She had probably missed out on work because of Isis. She had every right to be angry that Isis was withholding information. At home, such insolence would guarantee retribution. Therefore, it was quite astonishing to Isis when Farah reached out and took her hand.

"It's okay," Farah said, her voice soft and warm. "You don't have to talk about it."

Isis looked back at Farah in surprise. Her disbelief must have been obvious. "We all have our secrets. You don't have to tell anyone anything you don't want to," she said with a gentle smile.

"Thank you," Isis sighed. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. It had been such a long time since an adult had shown her so much kindness. At the best of times her father was distant and the servants were austere. This much compassion, especially from somebody she barely knew, was overwhelming. "You may have saved my life. If those men had caught me I… I do not know what would have happened."

The thought made Isis shudder, but it also reminded her that Farah had yet to mention her pursuers. "Mrs. Farah, what happened to the men chasing me? What did they do when they saw that you had me?"

"To be perfectly honest, I didn't see anyone chasing you," answered Farah.

Isis scowled in confusion. The Millennium Torc had clearly warned her that Nizam and Paki were almost upon her. "I know I heard yelling," she said. "Someone was yelling at me. They sounded so close, like they were following me. I don't remember what they were saying, but they were so very close."

"Sweetheart, the only one yelling was you."

"I was yelling?" Isis asked in shock. She hadn't remembered yelling.

Farah nodded. "You were yelling 'they're here! They're here!' over and over. Like I said, you were in a horrible panic. What did they look like?"

"One is about my age and the other is older. I think he's in his fifties. They were wearing tunics like mine. And they are bald except one piece of hair on the back of their heads."

Farah raised her eyebrows. "That's quite a distinctive hairstyle. I would remember seeing people like that."

"This is very strange," mumbled Isis. "I know they were chasing me. I know it. I am sure they would not give up so easily…"

Farah squeezed her hand. "Well, you're safe now," she assured Isis.

Isis smiled. "Thank you again, Mrs. Farah. I cannot begin to express how much I appreciate your kindness." She began to rise from the bed. "I vow to repay you and your family as soon as I am able. I do not know when that will be, but I swear that I will. Please give my regards to Aquilah. Goodbye." She got shakily to her feet and began to reach for her bag which had been laid neatly beside the bedside table.

"'Goodbye?'" Farah repeated, her brows knitting together. "Isis, you're not going anywhere. You're in absolutely no shape leave. You can barely walk."

"But I must," Isis answered. "I need to protect my family's name. And besides, you have already given me far too much of your time. I could not possibly impose anymore."

Farah looked like she was about to argue, but then seemed to change her mind. "I see you have made up your mind, and that there's no way I can convince you to stay," she said with a defeated sigh. "But do me a favor and answer just a few questions before you leave."

Isis frowned but nodded. "I will answer as much as I can," she promised.

"Good enough!" Farah said. She held up her index finger. "Where will you sleep for the night?"

"Ah…" Isis faltered. "I suppose… the dunes?"

"Very well," Farah conceded. She held up her second finger. "Do you know how cold it will get tonight?"

Isis frowned and shook her head.

"The radio forecast twelve degrees (Celsius). Which brings me to my next question." Farah held up her ring finger. "Do you have money?"

Again, Isis shook her head.

"I see," said Farah, still smiling easily. She held up her pinky finger. "Finally, when was the last time you had a solid meal? That snack doesn't count."

The aroma of cooking was obscenely good. It was even overpowering the cloying smell of the room. The question reminded Isis of how painfully hungry she was. "Yesterday," she answered. "Morning."

For the briefest moment a look of deep sorrow flickered over Farah's face, but it was instantly replaced by her gentle smile. "That would certainly explain the noises your stomach made while you slept. Very well, Miss Isis, I can see you've thought everything through. I appreciate your honesty. I'll show you to the door and you can be on your way."

Isis looked at the doorway and back to Farah. It was amazing how four simple questions had caused her resolve to drain away so rapidly. "Uh… Um…" she stuttered.

"Or," Farah continued. "You can stay for dinner and see how you're feeling afterward. Iman should be about done cooking. We're having fouhl."

"Fouhl!" gasped Isis. Despite everything, a wide grin spread over her face. The Ishtars only had fouhl on rare occasions. "I love fouhl!" she exclaimed. It had been her father's favorite meal and he refused to let anyone else cook it, lest they ruin the recipe. It had been a long time since he had made it.

Farah grinned encouragingly. "That settles it," she said. "At least stay for dinner and we'll figure things out from there."

Farah led her into the kitchen where a man Isis assumed to be Farah's husband was setting three places at a table. "Isis, this is my husband, Iman. Iman, this is Isis," Farah said. "She'll be joining us for dinner."

Iman beamed at Isis and pulled out a chair for her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Isis. I'm glad you seem to be feeling better. You had us a little worried."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Isis said as she sat down. "I do not know how I will ever repay you."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Iman. "We're happy for the company. Since Aquilah left for university, the house has felt rather empty." He ladled a large portion into Isis' bowl and the scent of lemon and herbs washed over her. It was all she could do to stop herself from picking the bowl up and drinking the stew down in one gulp. She forced herself to carry on the conversation.

"When did Aquilah leave for university?" she asked politely.

"Last month," Farah answered as she passed a dish of soft-boiled eggs to Isis. "She was offered a scholarship to Alexandria University. She's studying to be a computer engineer." Isis didn't know what a computer engineer was, and only had the foggiest concept of a university, but it sounded very impressive. Farah's voice practically quivered with pride. Isis wondered what it felt like to have someone be so delighted by her accomplishments. Rishid had certainly been supportive, but she knew it wasn't the same as an invested parent. Anyway, it wasn't as if she was destined for anything particularly fantastic.

"It's a shame the two of you didn't get to know each other," Farah continued. "I think you might have had much in common. You slept in her room, you know."

Isis thought back to the pink, puffy, and aggressively scented room. She had never seen so much… so much… she didn't even have the vocabulary to describe it! The room was just so very much.

And yet its vibrancy had a certain undeniable appeal.

"I think so, too," she answered earnestly.

"Excuse me," Iman cut in. "I worked too long on this food to let it go cold. It's time to eat."

"Don't go too fast!" Farah cautioned. "If you eat too quickly after two days without food, it could hurt your stomach." Isis couldn't help but notice Iman's cheerful expression fade into what looked like anger as Farah said this. "And I put a few drops of wine in your water. You won't even taste it, but it'll help settle your meal."

"Two days without food, huh?" Iman said. "Is that… is that normal for you?"

Isis shrugged and tried to answer without revealing too much about herself and her family. "We usually eat every day, but sometimes when it is hard to get into town we have to go a few days on scraps. I think I am just extra hungry today because I am so tired."

This didn't seem like a shocking response to Isis, but both Iman and Farah were visibly upset by the answer. A brief but heavy silence descended over their previously cheerful conversation. "Well, here we eat multiple times a day, every day. That's a house rule," Farah said with a small, forced laugh. "So get cracking! You have a lot of catching up to do."

And Isis did. The food was beyond wonderful. For most of the meal she simply ate while Farah and Iman talked. They seemed extremely eager to tell her as much as possible about themselves and their family. Isis didn't think much of it. Maybe all people on the surface were extra chatty.

Iman was from Arabia and Farah was from the village. "I am as local as they come! My family goes back generations. I highly doubt anyone has lived here as long as us," she explained. Isis privately disagreed, but she didn't let it show.

They went to a university in Europe where they both studied to become doctors. They met in an anatomy class where they had to practice medicine on donated human bodies. Iman had passed out as soon as the professor opened the first cadaver. Farah had helped revive him. "I woke up to the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, gazing down at me with a look of absolute disdain. I fell in love on the spot," he chuckled, and Isis found herself giggling as well.

They married soon after graduating and joined an organization that sent doctors all over the world to help people in need. When Farah became pregnant with Aquilah they moved to Cairo. Iman joined a private hospital and Farah stayed home with their daughter. Despite the good money and easy life, Cairo simply didn't feel right. They had gone from helping anyone who needed them to serving only the rich. After only a few years they were ready for a change. "We prayed for answers," Iman said. "And we got them, albeit in the worst way imaginable."

"There was a death in my family," Farah sighed. "We came back for the funeral and to help get everything settled. Then we realized that this is where we belong."

"They didn't have any real means of healthcare here, so we knew we were needed," explained Iman. "I started a pay-what-you-can clinic and Farah opened the pharmacy."

"We started truly helping people again, and at the risk of bragging, I think the village has become better off for it," Farah continued. "And I felt that I needed to be with my family." Her gaze became distant and sad for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder, if I had come back here instead of moving to Cairo, maybe I could have prevented…"

She was cut off by Iman as he reached out and stroked her shoulder lovingly. "You know it wasn't your fault," he whispered.

Isis blushed. She felt like she was intruding on a private moment. It was strange to see two adults so being so intimate and honest with each other. "I am sorry," she said quietly. "I have lost loved ones as well. My mother and my father are both gone from me."

"Both gone," Farah said softly, almost to herself. "You mentioned you had brothers. Are they-?"

"They are alive," Isis said quickly. "But that is one of the things I do not think I can talk about."

Farah held her hands up by her shoulders in a gesture of surrender. "Understood," she said, her gentle smile returning. "I will ask no more."

"Isis," Iman cut in. "You know I don't think I've ever met anyone who speaks as properly as you. Especially not someone so young."

"Arabic is my second language," she explained, glad for the change of subject. "I do not know all of the slang. I promise, in my first language I am much less polite."

Iman chuckled. "So, what is your first language?" he asked jovially.

"English!" Isis blurted out a little too quickly. In her relief she had forgotten that this, too, was a potentially dangerous topic. The servants had explained that almost nobody on the surface could speak or read ancient Egyptian. Learning Arabic was essential to interact with outsiders, and once she had mastered Arabic, she would start learning English.

"Oh, I know a little English!" exclaimed Farah. "But I bet my accent is awful. Let me see…" She spoke a few sentences that sounded like gibberish to Isis, who had yet to begin her English lessons, and gazed at her expectantly.

"Oh, ah, yes!" Isis said and prayed to all the gods that this was an appropriate response. The gods must have been listening. The Rahals laughed easily and she joined them. It seemed that she had made another narrow escape.

After she had eaten her fill, the Rahals guided her back to Aquilah's room. "Please tell me that you aren't still thinking of leaving tonight," Farah said beseechingly.

Isis shook her head. "If you would have me, I would be very grateful to stay the night."

"You are welcome to stay as long as you want," Iman said. "Take all the time you need."

Isis smiled at them. "Your kindness is beyond what I have experienced in a very long time," she said. "I will never be able to thank you enough."

"Thank us by getting some more sleep," Farah said, and the Rahals left her alone.

Isis brushed her teeth, changed into her spare tunic, and curled up in the fluffy bed. It was so warm and wonderful. Even the Millennium Torc seemed somehow satisfied, though she knew this was probably in her imagination. Despite the long hours she had slept that day, it took her almost no time at all to sink back into unconsciousness. But right before she drifted off, and just on the edge of hearing, she thought she heard the sound of crying coming from the other room.

Then velvet darkness enveloped her and she knew no more.

Isis had been with the Rahal family for just over a week. She hadn't intended to stay for so long. While she didn't know exactly what to do or even how to begin planning, Isis knew that she had to find her brothers. The idea of them on their own with even less practical knowledge than she had terrified her. She imagined them burning in the dessert, or pitifully begging for food in a town. Malik didn't know Arabic, and Rishid had never practiced it outside. Malik had the Millennium Rod, true enough, but he barely knew how to use it. It had only worked on her because he knew her so well. In any case, surely even Malik had enough sense not to use it on or in front of outsiders. Isis couldn't imagine it being of much use to him.

Isis was positive that it was her task to track down and save her brothers. The only problem was that it turned out to be incredibly difficult to leave the Rahal's home. It wasn't that they were forcing her to stay. They had told her that she was free to come and go as she pleased. And the Millennium Torc seemed neutral about her time with them. She received no premonitions or visions of impending doom. Nothing was forcing Isis to stay, yet leaving was almost impossible.

During the day, while Farah and Iman were at work, Isis was left alone in the house. She had wanted to help Farah at her pharmacy stall but was still afraid to spend more than a few minutes outside lest the servants or the strangers find her. Instead she did small chores around the house despite the Rahal's insistence that she was a guest and didn't owe them anything. It made her feel better nonetheless.

Isis liked to explore the house. It was strange, yet intriguing, to be alone in someone else's home, especially one so different than hers. The technology, which thanks to the Rahal's time in Cairo tended to be far more advanced than the other villagers, fascinated her to no end. She hadn't even tried to hide her amazement when Farah showed her how to use the Nintendo. "I'm making him jump!" she gasped as her character hopped across the screen. "I'm making the little man jump!"

Though the technology was flashy and fun, Isis found the framed photographs especially interesting. They were like glimpses into the past. Every photograph was of the three of them and rarely anyone else. She wondered vaguely why there weren't pictures of the family they had moved here to be with, but didn't give it much real thought. Mostly she just envied their bond. Her favorite picture was a recent family portrait. Iman and Farah were standing on either side of Aquilah, beaming. She was between them displaying a piece of parchment. Her shimmery blond hair spilled over her shoulders and looked almost white against her black dress. Aquilah's hair had always struck Isis as strange. Besides Malik and her father, she had never seen anyone with light hair.

Isis also occupied her time by reading. At first she had forced herself to read practical books, like the medical dictionaries in Farah and Iman's professional library and old copies of cooking magazines. But eventually, Isis started to read Aquilah's books. She had resisted the call of the bright, glossy bookshelf for the first few days. There were far more useful books in the house. In the Tomb, books had been sacred tools rather than a means of entertainment. Some of the scriptures were treated with as much reverence as the Millennium Items. It felt sacrilegious to waste paper and ink on frivolity. But Aquilah's books were amazing. They were about magic, romance, fictional battles, monsters, school, space, and all sorts of things Isis had never dared to consider. She spent hours poring over their content, justifying herself by pretending she was reading them to practice conversational Arabic.

When the Rahal's came home from work, she would help them prepare a meal, then spend the rest of the evening chatting or watching television with them. Though she still worried about Malik and Rishid tremendously, their warmth was infectious. It was why she found it difficult to leave. After a life of severity and darkness followed by the trauma of her father's death and her brothers' abandonment, the Rahal's open affection for her was intoxicating. Every day she told herself that tomorrow she would leave. But when 'tomorrow' came her resolve always waned.

By night, Isis would lay awake and practice with the Millennium Torc. It was slow going, but she had begun to make a little headway. The Torc seemed to respond better when she requested visions rather than demanded them. At first she had ordered the Torc, trying to imitate her father's energy, to show her what the following day held. All she had received was a rapid flash of blurry images that left her feeling nauseated and oddly resentful. But when she closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and asked the Torc for a vision of the next day, she had received the distinct image of falafel which they did indeed end up having for dinner. Visions of falafel wasn't exactly a resounding victory, but it was certainly a start.

She also found that it was easier to have visions involving herself rather than other people. When Isis asked about the Rahal's or the Ishtar's servants, she would receive cloudy and uncertain visions. But when she asked about herself, they tended to be much sharper. Once she requested a vision of Malik and Rishid to absolutely no avail. She didn't even receive the nauseating blurs. Just nothing. She prayed that it was because they were too far away.

Sometimes when Isis slept the Millennium Torc would replay iterations the first vision she had. She would wake up expecting to see monsters hovering over her, or with the feeling that she was being watched by a pair of blue eyes. These visions were worrisome. She had no idea what they could possibly mean, but they felt imminent. They weren't mere suggestions of what tomorrow might hold. They were destiny.

One evening Isis was curled up on the couch reading one of Aquilah's books. It was about a young magician and, while she didn't always understand the references, she found it particularly engrossing. Her reading was interrupted as Iman turned up the volume of the television.

"-dealership in Cairo was robbed this morning. The theft occurred during regular operation hours, however the police were not notified until well after the incident. Witnesses report seeing the chief of security hand the keys to a Harley Davidson motorcycle, along with all the money in the company's safe, to a young man. The chief of security has been detained by the police, but his accomplice is still at large. Witnesses claim that during the robbery they found themselves unable to move or even describe the young man-"

"That's the third strange robbery this week," Iman mumbled. "First it was a bank, then a clothing store. Same thing with all of them. An employee just gave the thieves everything, and nobody was able to-"

"Iman!" Farah cut in suddenly. "Please, can we turn this off?"

The urgency in Farah's voice would have been obvious to Isis had she not been so transfixed by the scene playing out on the television. She watched as the police walked the weeping security chief out of the dealership. "I couldn't stop, I swear! I didn't do it! I was being contr-" He was cut off as the screen went black.

"That's better," Farah sighed. "This is why I hate watching the news before bed. Isis, are you-"

"I am tired. I need to go to bed." Isis stood up and began to walk swiftly to Aquilah's room, not bothering to take the book with her. She closed the door firmly behind her, turned off the lights, and clutched the Wadjet Eye of the Millennium Torc.

"Show me Malik," she whispered. "Please, I beg of you. Please show me my brother."

There was no response. Isis' could feel herself beginning to panic. She forced herself to calm down and tried the Torc again.

"Please," she implored. "Please show me what becomes of them."

Still nothing. Her chest was beginning to tighten, making it hard to breathe. Isis sat back against the bed's headboard and tried to think through the anxiety. She knew it was harder to see the futures of other people than herself. She knew that she had to be calm and ask the Torc for help. And she knew that the Millennium Items were all connected.

An idea occurred to her.

"Please," she whispered. "please show me the future of the bearer of the Millennium Rod. Please show me your brother."

The vision engulfed her. This time it was so smooth she felt like she was there.

They are inside a building in Cairo. It is some kind of inn. Malik is sitting on the biggest bed that Isis has ever seen. Spread around him are piles of clothing, jewelry, food, and money. He picks up a handful of pounds and lets them fall freely from his fingers. He laughs. It is somewhere between a child's laugh and the wicked cackle from the day he killed their father. Rishid is sitting on a nearby sofa. In addition to the wounds on his back, his arm is now bandaged up to the elbow.

"Sorry again, Rishid," Malik says, though he does not sound truly remorseful. "I assumed the motorcycle would be easier than that."

Rishid does not say anything. He stares at the ground.

There is a knock at the door. A young woman brings in a fresh tray of food, then turns to leave. Before she goes, Malik calls out "wait!" She turns around and falls under the thrall of Millennium Rod.

"It is time for my brother to put fresh ointment on his wounds," Malik says. "You will tend to him. Now."

"Master, please no," Rishid says and finally looks up from the floor. "I can do it myself."

"But why should you?" Malik asks. "You have been a servant for years. Now you shall be served."

The woman walks to Rishid, removes his shirt and bandages, and begins rubbing his back with balm. Rishid has an expression of shame and embarrassment. His cheeks are bright red and he cannot seem to look at the woman as she works.

She finishes and leaves. As she walks through the door Malik releases her from his control. The woman sags, then turns to Malik and Rishid with a look of horrified confusion. "Wha- what did you-?" she sputters.

"Thank you for your help," Rishid says in stilted Arabic, and closes the door behind her. "Master, there was no reason for that," he says to Malik. "She was terrified."

"Of course there is!" he snaps. "I need practice, and these fools are perfect! If I am to become Pharaoh I need to learn control!"

"Yes… Master," Rishid mumbles.

The vision changed. For a few seconds she was watching young Malik rob a store. Then a slightly older Malik, along with some new followers, stole what looked like cards. Then Malik, Rishid, and more followers were committing yet another robbery, this time with guns. And on, and on the visions went showing brief and horrible glimpses of her brothers until, finally, Isis was released from the vision. She fell back on the bed and sobbed.

Isis rose well before the sun. She changed out of Aquilah's old pajamas and into her plain linen tunic, then packed her belongings back into her kitchen bag. Finally, she slipped her shoes on and crept silently out of the room.

Next she snuck into the kitchen and packed a small bag of dried fruit. She felt guilty for stealing Farah and Iman's food, but she had no idea when she would be able to buy her own. She wanted desperately to say goodbye to the Rahals. They had done so very much for her and she had loved every minute with them. But she knew there was no way to explain her sudden departure that would satisfy them. Instead, she settled for leaving a note on the coffee table that said she had family in Cairo who needed her and that she had to leave immediately. It thanked them for their kindness and swore that, when she was able, Isis would repay them in every way possible. Then she sighed, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed to the front door.

"You're going to need money."

Isis whirled around to find Farah sitting in a chair, obscured by shadow. "Mrs. Farah!" she gasped. "I didn't see you!"

Farah stood up and shrugged. "I couldn't sleep," she said. "You taking off?"

Isis desperately tried to think of a way to explain what she was doing but came up empty. "I am," she admitted. "I don't want to, but my brothers-"

"I understand." To Isis' surprise, Farah was smiling gently. "I had a feeling you wouldn't be here much longer. Here." She pulled a duffel bag from behind the couch and offered it to Isis. "You're going to need more than what you have that little grocery bag. I packed you a few changes of clothes, a first aid kit, food, water, and a few more odds and ends. I put a bus pass and some money in the front pocket."

Isis stared at the bag in disbelief. "For… for me?" she asked. "Why?"

"Because I know that you aren't going to stay here even if I beg you. This is the next best thing." Farah reached out and embraced her. Isis wanted to sink into her arms and stay there, forever warm and safe. She didn't want to leave these people who cared about her. But she had to.

"Trust fate," Farah said. "And when you find them, give Rishid and Malik my love."

"I will," Isis whispered as she willed herself to let go. "I'm going to miss you."

And with that, Isis left the safety and comfort of the Rahals and began the dangerous road to Cairo. Years later, she would remember that she had never told Farah and Iman her brothers' names.


	3. 2.25: Meet Half Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2.25  
> Hey everyone! It’s been an insane few months for me. May - August is by far the busiest time of year for museums, especially if you work in education. Between the last-minute school fieldtrips, traveling summer exhibits, writing and hosting festivals, and summer camp programs I have been working like a machine. It’s super rewarding, but it doesn’t allow much downtime during the day (I usually write in my lunch break) and when I get home I’m both physically and emotionally spent. My readers have been so encouraging and so patient and I hate to make you wait so long for the next chapter. In order to express my appreciation, I’m publishing this bit as a mini-chapter. Hopefully the full one will be up by late August, fingers crossed.

Isis chose a seat at the very back of the bus. It allowed her to see the rest of the bus’ passengers without having to turn around conspicuously. It also meant that nobody could sneak up behind her. Though the Millennium Torc hadn’t made so much as a peep since her vision of Malik and Rishid, the vantage point of the back seat still made her feel more secure.   
The bus lurched to a start just as the sun began to rise. Isis settled into the metal seat and began to sort through the contents of her new travel bag. Much to her delight she found a few of the books she’d been reading nestled among the more practical items. The driver had told her that between the rough desert roads and the stops they would be making along the way, the drive was expected to take roughly eight hours. The books would provide some much-needed entertainment. She selected the one about the magician and began to read.  
Isis only realized she’d fallen asleep when she began to dream. The rickety bus fell away and she found herself standing in the desert, but the barren patch of wilderness they’d been driving through was replaced by a sprawling temple complex. Stepped pyramids surrounded a massive building that, judging by the grandiose architecture, appeared to be a palace. It took Isis a few moments to realize that she knew exactly where she was. She’d read about it many times and had even seen it mapped out, but it looked so different in person. She was in the Pharaoh’s Court.   
As she gazed in wonder at the opulence around her, Isis began to notice the people milling about. Priests, scribes, and scholars roamed the court and mingled openly with each other. Servants darted from building to building running errands and guards stood stalwart at their posts.   
A small group of people stood out from the rest of the court. Three men and a younger girl who looked about her age stood in a small huddle some distance away from the other people. Instead of the practical linen tunics and kilts worn by the others, the men were dressed in long, flowing robes and positively dripped with golden jewelry. The girl, on the other hand, wore the shortest dress Isis had ever seen and jewelry that, while still excessive, seemed marginally less decadent than the men’s.   
As Isis stared at the gleaming foursome, one of the men looked up from their conversation and waved companionably in her direction. Isis glanced behind her to see who his gesture was intended for but saw nobody. She looked back at them in confusion only to discover that now they were all staring at her. The original waver beckoned for her to join their group.   
Isis considered running away. Only select people were allowed so close to the palace, and in Aquilah’s hand-me-down jeans and baggy pink T-shirt she was sure it was painfully obvious that she did not belong. But the sparkling group didn’t seem upset by her presence. The girl was jumping up and down in excitement and the man who’d waved to her was beaming. In any case, she was sure this was a dream. An extremely realistic dream, but a dream nonetheless. She shrugged to herself and began to make her way over to them.  
She hadn’t made it half way when the girl, unable to restrain herself, sprinted to meet her. She launched herself at Isis and wrapped her in a hug so tight it squeezed the air from her lungs. “Isis!” she exclaimed. “You’re back! It feels like you’ve been gone for so long! Did you find the pharaoh? What about Seth? What are you wearing? I like it!”  
Isis found her arms wrapping around the girl’s waist almost of their own accord. Normally her instincts would have caused her to freeze up or struggle to free herself from the grasp of a stranger, but somehow this girl didn’t feel strange at all. A mixture of familiar emotion arose within her. It was a combination of annoyance, concern, and overshadowing everything, love. Isis had no idea who the girl was, but she was certain they somehow knew each other.  
Gentle hands began to pry the girl away before Isis could attempt to make sense of the situation. “Whoa, Mana,” said Isis’ rescuer. “Give her some air.”  
Isis looked up at a man who could have stepped out of a classic Egyptian mural. As he delicately pulled the girl off Isis, she saw the other two men approaching behind him. One was bald with a tattoo around his head, and the other was tall with a gold trimmed veil over his hair. Again there was a sense of familiarity. Feelings of respect, companionship, trust, and yet more love washed over her.  
“Mana, I don’t think this is her,” the tall man said. “At least not yet. Did you not notice that she’s shorter than you?”  
“And she still has the Torc,” added the bald man. “When Isis comes back she won’t need it.”  
“Who are… I mean, how do I know you?” Isis asked. She was positive that she not only knew these people but cared very deeply for them. Judging by the girl’s greeting and the expressions the men were wearing, the feeling was mutual.   
The tall man smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid that would take too long to explain with any accuracy. Think of us as old friends for the time being. My name is Mahaad.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and she automatically took his elbow to complete the gesture of greeting.   
“My name is Isis,” she responded, though they seemed to know that already.   
Mahaad’s smile broadened. “That’s quite a coincidence, being named the same thing twice in a row,” he laughed. Isis had no idea what he meant by that but felt compelled to laugh along with him.  
Next the man she felt she had seen a thousand times on various scrolls and murals stepped forward. “My name is Karim,” he said as they repeated the greeting gesture. “I know you don’t recognize us but it’s wonderful to see you.”  
The bald man was the next to greet her. He introduced himself as Shada. If it weren’t for the innate sense of comfort she felt, Isis would have been intimidated by him. He was almost as tall as Mahaad and the markings across his brow made his expression look permanently severe. This made it even more surprising when he burst into laughter during the greeting gesture. “Sorry!” he exclaimed. “You look so much like our Isis except now you’re smaller than Mana. It’s so strange!”   
Before Isis could ask Shada what he meant, Mana bounded over and hugged her again, but this time a little more gently. “Have you seen us in any of your visions?” she asked excitedly.  
“I don’t think so.”   
“Oh,” Mana said, her voice edged with disappointment. “I thought you’d want to know all about us.”  
Though she still had no idea what any of this meant, Isis scrambled to come up with a way to spare her new, or possibly old, friend’s feelings. “I’ve only had it for one week and barely know how to use it,” she admitted. “Usually I only get visions when I’m in danger.”   
This seemed to satisfy Mana. “Well I guess you know us now,” she chirped, then leaned in until her face was level with the Torc and yelled “THANKS ISIS! THE NEW YOU SEEMS NICE!” at the top of her voice.  
Once again Karim gently pulled Mana away from Isis. “You know that’s not at all how it works,” he chided. “Isis is not inside the Torc,” and then shuddered and mumbled “thank the gods” under his breath.  
“Keep practicing with it,” encouraged Shada. “There is so much more you can do with the Torc than simply receive visions of danger. As the Torc’s chosen bearer you can-”  
Isis lost her balance as a tremor shook the world around her. For a brief moment she was no longer in the desert but on a rickety bus, her head bouncing painfully against the streaky window as they drove over a particularly pothole ridden road. Then she was back in the Pharaoh’s court.   
“Looks like you’re being pulled back to the mortal realm,” came a voice right by her ear. “We don’t have much time left.” Something about “mortal realm” resonated strangely with Isis, but she was far too focused on the fact that Mahaad’s arm was wrapped protectively around her waist to take much interest in what it implied.   
Over the past week it seemed as if all she’d done was fall down. Even in a dream she couldn’t manage to stand on her own two feet. It was even more humiliating now than ever. She already hated that she had no way to pay the Rahal’s back for taking her in, and being so easily overpowered by her little brother was even worse, but the idea of her new-old friends having to take care of her was practically unbearable. While she loved and trusted these people, Isis also felt an intense need for them to see her as capable. Especially Mahaad for some reason.  
The desire to be seen as strong was familiar. Back in the Tomb, displays of weakness would always end in one of three ways. The least painful possibility was that she would be punished. Even a lapse as small as forgetting a line of sacred text or dozing off during meditation was grounds for swift retribution.   
The second way was far worse. One of her brothers, most often Rishid, would end up suffering on her behalf. If the cause of an error was not immediately obvious, her father had the tendency to assign blame to the easiest target. This had become worse and worse as he aged and withdrew farther from his family.   
Finally, without a nurturing adult presence it always fell upon her brothers to take care of her when she was upset. Isis remembered spending long hours crying onto Rishid’s shoulder when she was young, forcing him to be more of a parent or nurse than a brother. As she grew up and started tending to Malik in much the same way, she began to recognize how unfair it was to deprive Rishid of his childhood.  
Thanks to their upbringing all three of the Ishtar siblings had become adept at hiding what they perceived to be weakness and failure. Rishid had once spilled a drop of ink onto a 400-page text and spent the next month secretly copying the entire volume into a fresh journal. And though he thrived on attention, even Malik had adopted similar tendencies. Isis had seen him fall flat on his face and swallow a mouthful of blood and a baby tooth rather than admit he was hurt.  
But Isis particularly prided herself on her resilience. Even beyond her upbringing she was naturally independent. When faced with a problem she automatically tried to solve it by herself. She always tried to puzzle her way through the more confusing texts on her own before asking for help. She had no problems playing alone and in fact sometimes found herself craving time away from her brothers. She hated feeling helpless. As time wore on, her ability to seem composed at all times changed from a mere survival trait to a vital part of her identity. Malik was the dreamer, Rishid was the nurturer, and she was the capable one. Recently even the servants had begun to defer to her more as a leader rather than the child that she truly was.  
Isis’ sudden lack of control was weighing heavily on her. Life in the Tomb was often difficult but at least she had felt a deep sense of self-possession. Now she was wandering in an unfamiliar land with minimal possessions, an overwhelmingly powerful artifact she didn’t understand, and only the barest skeleton of a plan. She was at the mercy of a world she was out of step with by 3,000 years. Not only had the past few days been emotionally traumatic, but her ego had taken a severe beating.   
What made thing even more frustrating was the sudden realization that she didn’t want Mahaad to let go of her. Despite the desert heat, the warmth of his arm through her shirt was incredibly comforting. The desire to be held and reassured conflicted harshly with her desire for independence. It was confusing to say the least.  
Isis stepped quickly out of Mahaad’s grasp. “I’m fine, thanks for catching me,” she mumbled, trying not to blush. The sound of Mana sniggering only made it worse.  
“You’re our Isis alright,” Shada said with a smile. “Three thousand years later and still the same. It’s a relief to see that some things never change.”  
The strangeness of Shada’s statement was enough to get Isis’ attention through the haze of embarrassment. “What do you mean by ‘three thous-” she began, but was cut off by another tremor. Again she was on the bus, then just as quickly in the desert once more. This time Karim had put a hand on her back. He let go as soon as it was obvious she wasn’t about to fall over.  
“Just in case,” he said apologetically.   
Isis sighed. “What’s going on?” she asked. She could feel herself slipping away from them but didn’t want to go. There was so much she wanted to ask, but her curiosity was nothing compared to her desire to bask in the comfort of their presence.   
“You’re starting to fade,” Mahaad said. “I wish we could answer all of your questions but there isn’t time.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t know what you’re about to face. We only get brief glimpses into the mortal realm and we are never quite certain of what we see when there. But you must never forget that you are not alone.”  
“If anyone can do this, it’s you,” Karim said. “I’ve never met anyone so in command of their destiny.”  
Shada put his hand on her other shoulder. “And of course we’ll be thinking of you and eagerly awaiting your return.” He paused, then hastily amended “but not too eagerly, obviously. Live a good, long life.”  
“I don’t know,” Mana laughed. “Wouldn’t it be fun if she came back soon and was short for good?” She elbowed Isis playfully in the ribs. “We’d be like twins!”  
“Again, Mana, it does not work that way,” Mahaad said, though there was laughter in his eyes. “She’ll come back exactly as she was no matter when she… rejoins us.”   
With that, Mahaad pulled Isis into a friendly embrace. Isis reciprocated the gesture happily. “You are not alone,” he repeated. “Seek help as you need it and trust your companions as they prove themselves. I know you. Do not condemn yourself to do it all alone.” Isis closed her eyes and smiled as she leaned against him, basking in the comfort of her new… old… friends.   
When Isis opened her eyes she was no longer resting on Mahaad’s shoulder but against the back of the bus seat. The memory of her dream faded instantly, but the sense of peace stayed with her for the rest of her journey to Cairo.


	4. Trial by Fire

Trial by Fire  
Trigger Warning: Descriptions of violence.  
Isis didn’t bother trying to conceal her amazement in Turgoman. There was no point. The place was massive. Vehicles came through in unceasing waves. People from all over the world swarmed around her. The sounds of motors, chatter, laughter, horns, yelling, and general turmoil deafened her.  
There were more people in this one place than Isis had met in her entire life.   
And this was only the bus station.  
The press of the crowd hampered her progress to the exit. Each time she was bumped by a stranger she expected a quick apology, but none ever came. A few times she accidentally hit people and, likewise, nobody seemed to mind. Nobody noticed.  
She soon gave up trying to cut her own path and let the push of the crowd guide her out of the station. It was then that she got her first good look at Cairo. She hadn’t known exactly what to expect from Egypt’s capital city but had a vague idea that it would be a larger version of the village.  
She couldn’t have been farther from the truth.  
Cairo was more massive and teeming with life than she possibly could have imagined. The crush of people around Isis made her feel claustrophobic in a way that the Tomb never had. The scents of the city made her head spin. It took mere moments for her to become completely disoriented.   
Isis stepped clumsily out of the crowd and tilted her head up in hopes that the sight of the open sky would ease her anxiety. This turned out to be a mistake. From this angle the skyscrapers looked ready to topple over and crush her at any moment. And was it just her, or were they closing in on each side?  
She quickly looked away from the monstrous buildings before nausea overwhelmed her. The last thing she needed to do was vomit in the middle of all these people.   
Isis stood still for a few more moments and gave the world time to stop spinning then started on her way again, wondering vaguely where to go. She had originally planned to get food and rent a room that evening, but that was before she knew how massive Cairo was. Her situation, which was already painfully difficult, was becoming more complicated by the minute.   
But she had to do something. Her brothers needed her.  
Isis decided to explore the city on her own for a while and learn as much as she could. Anyway, things weren’t so bad. She had money, clean clothing, and food in her bag, and the Millennium Torc to guide her way. She straightened her back and set her jaw. If anyone could do this, it was her.  
A strange thought drifted across her mind. I’ve never met anyone so in command of their destiny. Isis had no idea where it came from. She was pretty sure it wasn’t the Torc. As protective as it was, it had never spoken words of encouragement. The sentiment felt like a memory, only she couldn’t recall where it had originated. Regardless of where it came from, it gave her a rush of confidence. She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and faced the city.  
As she walked Isis felt a slight pressure on the shoulder her bag was slung over, but she ignored it. It was probably just someone bumping into it. She kept walking only to feel the pressure again.   
“Look down.”   
Isis took the advice of the Torc and saw an arm elbow deep in her bag. She was being robbed in broad daylight while surrounded by hundreds of people. But growing up with brothers and minimal parental supervision had prepared her to dispense rough-and-ready justice at a moment’s notice. Without a second thought she stomped hard on the thief’s foot and drove her elbow into their ribs. The pickpocket withdrew their arm with a pained yelp. Only then did Isis get a good look at her assailant. She was shocked to see a girl who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old.   
“I am sorry!” Isis gasped. The girl, however, did not seem overly upset by the encounter. She gave Isis a measured look and a small shrug as if to say, “You got me.” Clearly this was nothing unusual for her.   
Her dispassionate response did nothing to make Isis feel better. She dug through her bag for a handful of bills and held them out to the girl. “Take this offering as a token of my sincere apologies,” she said. The girl snatched the money with snake-like speed and melted back into the crowd without a word.  
The whole interaction confused Isis. The little girl had looked so tired and dirty. Was there nobody to take care of her? And not a single person had noticed besides Isis, and even then only thanks to the Torc. It shocked her that anyone would have to resort to theft and begging, but especially a small child. Isis had never seen poverty before. The little village was far from wealthy, but everyone she had encountered seemed well fed and relatively content. What kind of place let its children go hungry?   
A sudden noise made Isis jump. She turned to face a man who was shaking his head in disapproval. “Whew, that was a lot of money,” said the man. “You shouldn’t give so much to beggars. It only encourages them and causes a nuisance.”  
Isis glared at the stranger. Who was this person to tell her what to do with her own possessions? “It is my money, and I will do with it what I choose,” she said shortly.  
The man scowled back at her. “Weird accent you got there. You’re not from around here, are you.” It wasn’t a question so much as an observation. A small shiver of fear ran up Isis’ spine, but she calmed herself before any emotion showed on her face. Cairo was massive and she’d already seen people from across the world. He’d probably think she was just another foreigner.  
“That is right.” She raised her chin and narrowed her eyes imperiously, daring the man to comment further.  
He rolled his eyes and mumbled “damn tourists,” under his breath. “Always making it difficult for the rest of us.”  
Half a dozen retorts flooded to Isis’ mind, but instead she turned her back haughtily and continued on her way. The nerve of that man! The servants would never speak to her like that, and from a stranger it was even more insulting. However, as much as she was loath to admit it, he did raise an important point. She had given away what felt like a lot of money. On top of that she’d nearly been robbed of everything.  
When Isis was out of sight of the nosy stranger she pushed the money down to the bottom of her bag so that it would be difficult to reach. Additionally, positioned the bag so that the zipper was in front of her where she could easily see anyone trying to rob her. Then, for what felt like the millionth time in ten minutes, she gathered her resolve and stepped back into the teeming streets of Cairo.  
As the initial shock of the city wore away, Isis began to notice how fascinating it was. Buildings both new and old flanked the roads, each one full of mysteries and a life all its own. The occasional statue or minaret gave the streets a surreal, anachronistic ambiance. Stalls similar to the ones in her home village lined the roads. They sold food, colorful juices, and any number of random items labeled variously as “souvenirs” or “curios.”   
People, particularly westerners, seemed most attracted to the stalls selling trinkets but Isis was immediately enchanted by the food vendors. Meals in the Tomb typically consisted of the few things Rishid knew how to cook and were rather bland. Meals with the Rahals had certainly been more exciting, but nothing she’d ever eaten could compare to the street food of Cairo. The aromas of roasting vegetables, toasting bread, fresh fruit, fried pastries, boiling stews, and more spices than she had known existed assaulted her stomach by way of her nose. All she’d had to eat that day was a few handfuls of dried fruit. Even the scent of charred lamb and chicken was painfully enticing despite her distaste for meat.  
Isis followed the scent of sautéed onions to a cart and ordered flatbread stuffed with grilled vegetables and feta cheese with a cup of icy water that had been tinted green by the sheer amount of cucumbers floating in it.   
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the vendor asked as he prepared her food. “I’ve never heard an accent like yours before. Where you from, kid?”  
This time Isis was prepared for the question. “Saudi Arabia,” she answered without hesitation. “I come from far out in the country and our dialect is different. This is my first time in Cairo.”  
The vendor beamed. “Well, welcome to our city. Hey, is this your first day?”  
Isis smiled. “I just got off the bus about an hour ago,” she answered. “I’m still trying to find my way around.”  
From the country side, fresh off the bus, strange and fake sounding accent, finding her own way around? The man looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her baggy hand-me-down clothes, over-stuffed duffel bag, and noting the lack of any adults. Ah, a runaway. There were more and more every day. “This’ll be your first meal here, then?” the man asked. Isis nodded. “Well first taste of Cairo is on the house,” he said as he passed the glistening plate toward her.   
“I, uh, do not have a house,” Isis answered with a frown. “I am sorry. But I do have money.” She dug her money out of her bag once again and held it out. “How many pounds is it?”  
The man stared at her for a moment, trying to conceal his pity. Offering what looked like all her money to a stranger? She won’t last the night. Allah, save these kids. “No, dear, it’s an expression. It means I’m giving it to you for free.” He gently pushed her outstretched hand away. “And to go with it I have some free advice. Don’t go waving that money around, okay? Most people are decent, but there are those out there who would take advantage of you.”   
Isis blushed and put her money back in the bag. That was two strangers in a row who’d noticed her unfamiliarity with money. Apparently it was a much more complicated subject than she’d thought. “Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”  
The man waved his hands dismissively. “I’m glad to help. It’s a big city,” he answered. “I’ve lived here all my life and I still feel lost sometimes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”  
“There is one thing,” she said. “Do you know of any cheap places to stay the night?” the prospect of finding a place to sleep had begun to concern her. She had passed a few hotels but they were all intimidating and seemed very fancy. Isis didn’t know much about money, but she knew she probably couldn’t afford a place like where Malik and Rishid were staying in her vision.   
The vendor pointed her in the direction of a hostel a few blocks away. “You’ll have to share a room,” he explained. “But it’s mostly university students on backpacking tours. It should be safe.” Isis thanked the vendor again and began to head in the direction of the hostel, eating her stuffed flatbread as she walked. The taste somehow surpassed even the scent of it and the cucumber water was the most refreshing thing she’d ever tasted.   
She was licking the last drops of grease off her fingers as the sun finished setting and the city burst into light. Rows upon rows of street lamps flickered on, neon signs glowed above storefronts, and even the windows in the buildings above her gave off a soft, golden glow. Isis gaped at the shimmering city, hardly able to believe her eyes. It felt like she was walking in a dream. She found herself desperately missing her brothers. If only she could have seen Malik’s face the first time he’d experienced Cairo at night… Just imagining his expression made her giggle despite her broken heart.   
The hostel was on the second floor of a squat building that was slightly set off from downtown Cairo. It cost £413 (about $25) a night and smelled permanently like baked goods thanks to the café on the first floor. The proprietor led Isis to a cramped room where three other girls were already staying. Just like the street vendor had predicted they appeared to be European students. They were huddle together on one of the room’s four beds looking at what appeared to be trinkets from the souvenir stalls. As Isis entered the room, they smiled and greeted her in a language she didn’t recognize. She waved shyly at them, kicked off her shoes, and settled onto the only bed free of luggage.   
In that moment she wanted nothing more than to relax, change into the pajamas Farah had packed for her, and get back to the book about the sorcerer, but there was still work to be done. Quite important work.  
It was time for her to figure out her money.  
She knew the basics, but based on her encounters with the pickpocket, the annoying man, and the kind vendor, it was becoming clear that the subject was much more complicated than she had expected. Though she had helped the servants shop during the past year nobody had ever explained in any detail where money came from, the meanings of the different pound notes, or how to budget. She didn’t even know what a lot of money vs. a little was.  
Isis pulled her money out and quickly totaled it up. It added up to £6554 (roughly $400 USA) which seemed like a big number, but she wasn’t sure how far it would stretch. The hostel had cost £413, and the menu at the food cart said her meal would have cost £82 ($5) if she’d had to pay for it. Isis figured she could get by on two meals a day. But there were cheaper items on the menu. So that was…  
She found a pen in her bag and began to draft a budget on the hostel receipt. Eventually she came to the conclusion that if she used the money for necessities only, she would have enough for a little over two weeks in Cairo. It wasn’t a lot of time, but all she needed to do was find Rishid and Malik. Cairo was big, but they were her family. They were connected. It couldn’t possibly take more than a few days to track them down, especially since she had the help of the Millennium Torc and Malik was extremely bad at subtlety. All she had to do was use the Torc to see where he would strike next and be there waiting for him. It would be simple.  
The other girls left the room just as she was finishing up her budget. Isis took the opportunity to change into her pajamas, then grabbed her book and sank into the small bed. She felt a little guilty for not practicing with the Torc, but it had been an eventful day and she wanted to relax. Besides, she’d been practicing with it every night for over a week now. Last night’s vision in particular had taken a lot out of her. A night to rest her mind would probably be good for her.  
Isis read until her eyes were heavy. She fell asleep listening to the hum of traffic and enjoying the scent of baking bread coming in through the vents. Her last thought before drifting off was “we’ll be together in no time.”

The money lasted less than half the time she had expected. In her budget Isis had only accounted for food and a place to sleep. She hadn’t considered things like laundry, personal hygiene, and transportation. Not only that, but most meals were more expensive than she had expected. £82 would get her a vegetable sandwich and water but it wasn’t enough to keep her full for hours. Despite her resolve to spend as little as possible, Isis found herself frequently darting into bodegas and buying snack food that was equally unfilling. But snack food was only a few pounds. Hardly anything, really. There could be no harm in buying a pack of crisps. And the waterless hand cleanser was also only a few pounds. And so was the little waterproof map of Cairo. And the giant bottle of tea. And a taxi ride back to the hostel wasn’t that much either.  
It was shocking how quickly a handful of pounds here and there added up.   
On her fifth day in Cairo, Isis had a vision of Malik and Rishid.   
They are at a game store and where they are stuffing a bag with packs of Duel Monsters cards. There are employees and customers nearby. Their expressions are placid and void of all emotion. Rishid slings the bag over his shoulder. They run out of the store without stopping for anything else. The only things they take are the Duel Monsters cards.  
Isis jolted back into the present and struggled to figure out what to do through the lethargy that always came after a detailed vision. She knew where that game store was. She’d passed it several times already and had even peeked inside hoping to see Malik who had always enjoyed games. It was in the heart of Cairo only a few blocks away from her hostel. Unfortunately, she had taken a bus to a motorcycle dealership on the outskirts of the city.  
Isis had no idea how far in the future her vision was. For all she knew it could be mere seconds away. She was more than an hour’s walk from downtown Cairo and the bus traveled only marginally faster. The quickest way to the shop was a taxi.  
The only problem was that if Isis spent money on the taxi, she wouldn’t have enough for a room that evening. It was a huge risk.  
But this could be her chance to save Malik and Rishid. If she found her brothers and convinced them to come home, money would never be a problem again. The thought of hugging them, of feeling safe and secure in their arms, of knowing that she’d never be away from them again overruled any argument for prudence.   
Isis dove into the first taxi she saw with no regard for the couple it had actually stopped for. She pulled out a fist full of cash and yelled “I will give you all the money I have if you take me to the game store downtown as fast as you possibly can” before the driver had a chance to protest.  
The driver, a young man raised on western action movies, grinned and floored the pedal. He had been waiting for this moment since starting the job and couldn’t believe it had taken a whole month to be in his first high speed chase. The cab screeched out of the motorcycle dealership and began to rocket toward the heart of Cairo.  
Isis was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to process the dangerous speed at which they were traveling. Why on earth were Malik and Rishid robbing a gaming store? And why were they targeting the Duel Monsters cards specifically? A few months ago Isis had smuggled a few packs of Duel Monsters cards into the Tomb, justifying her actions by telling herself that it would be a fun way to teach Malik Arabic. In reality she had read the rules at the small toy booth and had immediately been intrigued. In any case, the game had been fun and easy to hide from their father. Malik had especially enjoyed the colorful pictures and hoarded the prismatic cards for himself, but Isis had a hard time believing he loved the game enough to rob a store specifically for it.   
Wait, didn’t her reoccurring vision have cards in-  
Suddenly the world lurched and turned sideways. Isis screamed as she was flung against the cab’s window. Her head slammed into the thick glass and purple spots exploded in her vision. Then the cab lurched again, throwing her in the opposite direction and causing her neck to snap back with a painful pop. Again, the cab lurched. This time the whole car flipped upside down. Isis was hurled from her seat and landed in a crumpled heap on what had been the roof of the cab. With one final spin on its axes, the cab came to a stop. The entirety of the crash had taken no more than five seconds but it felt like an eternity.  
Isis rose shakily to her hands and knees and pushed at the battered door until it popped open. She crawled clumsily out of the upturned vehicle and tried to take in her surroundings despite the purple blotches still obscuring her vision. They were on the curb of a busy intersection. Long skid marks traced the cab’s path and showed where it had rounded the intersection corner too sharply, hopped the curb, and glanced off a street lamp causing it to flip.   
Isis reached back into the cab to take her bag and felt the world reel beneath her. It was a feeling that was becoming all too familiar; the feeling that she was about to faint.  
No, she thought furiously. Not this time. Not when I’m so close.   
She grabbed her bag with trembling hands, rose to her feet, and began to walk the remaining distance to the gaming shop. As she went she heard people calling to her, trying to help her, but she ignored them. There was no time to be hurt. When the world stopped whirling around her and her vision cleared, she broke into a run. It was agony. Every step made her neck and head throb but she refused to stop. She was so close. So close. So close.  
Isis burst around a corner and onto the long downtown street that housed the gaming shop. Even from a quarter mile away she could see police cars with their bright blue lights surrounding the building. Her heart threatened to break at the sight of them but she pushed her encroaching despair away. It didn’t necessarily mean her brothers were gone. Maybe the Millennium Rod had finally failed. Maybe this would provide a distraction that allowed her to reach them in time.   
But when she reached the shop it was clear that she had missed them. The police officers were already taking statements from witnesses and searching the shop for evidence. Isis ran up to a group of officers paying no heed to the portable yellow barricades shielding the crime scene from the public.  
“How long ago did the thieves leave?” she asked breathlessly.   
The officers paused in their investigation and regarded her coldly. “Young lady, please stand on the other side of the barricade,” he said in response.   
“Please!” she begged, trying to keep her eyes from filling with tears. “I can still get to them! Please?!”  
The officer put a firm hand on her shoulder led her to the other side of the barrier. “You can’t impede an investigation miss, unless you want to be charged with hindering an officer. If you have any information about the crime or suspects, you can give Officer Mahmoud over there a statement. Otherwise, stay out of our way.” And with that the officer turned and left.  
Isis was about to charge right back in when someone tapped her shoulder. “They went that way,” said a small, elderly woman. “About five minutes ago. A kid and a young man went up that ally. I’m the only one who saw, and I told the police I wasn’t hypnotized by the mind ray like the rest of them, but they just looked at me like I was crazy-”  
Isis took off toward the ally before the old woman could finish her story. Malik and Rishid only had a five-minute lead on her. Maybe she could still get them! There was still hope.  
That hope evaporated when she reached the ally. Not only was it empty, but it led to a dozen other alleyways and streets. Those alleyways and streets led to hundreds of buildings, thousands of doors, and millions of people. She turned this way and that, frantic to find a clue. The rapid motion made her head throb and her neck seize up again. The only thing she spotted was a lone pack of Duel Monsters cards lying in the middle of the ally. She picked the card pack up, looked at it through dull eyes, then sank to her knees and began to cry openly.   
She had lost them. She had lost everything.

Isis found it easiest to measure time in terms of events.  
It had been nine months since she had lost the last of the money that the Rahals had given her. Nine months since she had been able to pay for a room to sleep in, or a hearty meal, or basic human comforts.  
It had been eight months and two weeks since her shoes had worn out. They had been made for a mostly sedentary life in the Tomb. The paved streets and sidewalks of Cairo had eaten through the hardened canvas with ease. After a few weeks of walking, they had been reduced to gray rags.  
It had been eight months and one week since her last full night’s sleep. Between aching hunger and fear of theft or worse, she found herself waking up frequently to change locations.  
It had been eight months since she had sold most of what Farah had given her. The book, the spare clothing, most of the contents of the first aid kit, the bus pass, and every other non-essential item in her bag with the exception of her mother’s headpiece and the photograph of her brothers was sold for less than one night’s rent in a cheap hostel.  
It had been seven months and three weeks since she first resorted to begging. The idea of asking strangers for help made her stomach hurt, but she couldn’t eat her pride. Soon she learned that western tourists were most likely to pity her and give her money while native Egyptians would usually shoo her away with a scowl. She didn’t know which reaction shamed her the most.  
It had been seven months and two weeks since a vision showed her that Malik and Rishid had left Cairo. She saw them in a city whose buildings made Cairo’s skyscrapers look like mere toys. She would eventually recognize the city as Dubai, but in the moment it looked like they may as well be on another planet while she was stranded in Cairo. She had debated going back to the Tomb but it was over 300 miles away. She also didn’t know what she’d find when she got there. The idea of seeing her father’s body sickened her. The idea of meeting servants who thought she was responsible for his death was even worse. No. She couldn’t go back.  
It had been seven months since she’d lost her curves. Pervasive hunger and near constant movement had robbed her of the small amount of body fat she had to spare.  
It had been six months and one week since she had first resorted to theft. She told herself that she would only take small necessities such as food and fresh water. It was nothing like the crime spree that Malik and Rishid were on but it still made her conscience pang with guilt.  
It had been five months since her last period. Her body didn’t have energy to spare for unessential processes. From what Isis knew, this wasn’t supposed to happen until she became pregnant and there was no chance of that. At first she was vaguely concerned but this soon gave way to relief. It was one less thing to worry about.  
It had been four months since she had been poisoned. She had eaten what looked like a perfectly fine pastry that she’d fished out of a trash can near an upscale bakery. That should have told her that something wasn’t right. Nobody would throw away an untouched pastry, especially from such an expensive store. It was lying right on top of the trash can, still wrapped in tissue paper, unsullied by the garbage. Isis had taken it as a gift from the gods, but of course it wasn’t. The following two days were a haze of pain. She vomited more food than she could have possibly eaten and drifted in and out of a fever. Relief only came when she desperately stumbled into a mosque where she sometimes slept (rarely though. Competition for refuge in shelters and churches was fierce and often a hunting ground for thieves and other predators) and begged for help from the worshipers. They had given her water and let her sleep until her fever broke, then sent her on her way. Before leaving, a fellow refuge seeker had warned her that sometimes upscale restaurants would purposefully throw away food laced with rat poison to discourage beggars and dumpster divers.  
It had been two months and since the Millennium Torc had last responded to her. She had been making good progress with it before the gaming shop incident, but was hard not to blame the Torc for losing her brothers. Why hadn’t it told her about the cab accident? Why hadn’t it told her about the rat poison? Why couldn’t it tell her how far in the future events were going to happen? Why had it failed her so horribly? After that day she had given up on the gentle coaxing method and gone back to demanding it give her the answers she wanted. Her practice sessions had become more and more frantic as the months wore on. She had changed from raging at the Torc to begging it for guidance, often to the point of tears. The more desperate she became, the less active it was. Finally it stopped interacting with her entirely. The only visions she still received were echoes of the very first one.

It had been four hours since she had attempted to rob the wrong tourist. Usually they were easy prey. On the rare occasion that she was caught, their reaction was simply to yell at her or stare in wide-eyed astonishment. A few times they had even given her the money she had attempted to steal. It was strange to think that she had once done the exact same thing. When she remembered her first days in Cairo, it almost seemed like she was thinking of a different person.  
Isis crept silently through the crowd at the train station. Her eyes never left her target: the suitcase of an overweight man in a suit. When robbing tourists, Isis usually chose people like him who looked like they were coming to Cairo for business. They didn’t carry as much cash as regular tourists, but they frequently had valuable goods like watches and cell phones that she could sell. It also helped that Isis felt much less guilty stealing from them than from visiting families.   
She had been following this particular man for a few blocks, hoping to find the right moment to make her move. It didn’t seem too difficult. As he walked down the street his eyes drifted from the buildings to the crowd to the street vendors and back again. His suitcase rolled loosely behind him, completely vulnerable. It was clearly his first time in Cairo. ‘What a fool,’ she thought. ‘He’s lucky it’s just me robbing him. I’m practically doing him a favor.’ Again, Isis was taken aback by the idea that she had once been just as naïve.   
He turned off the crowded street and into the labyrinth of alleyways that laced through Cairo’s less picturesque neighborhoods. That was a little odd, Isis noted. Most westerners tended to stay exclusively downtown amidst the museums, shops, and restaurants. The backways tended to intimidate them. But this man didn’t seem especially bright which was all the better for her. He continued through the near empty lanes, making turns seemingly at random, with an expression of good natured confusion. Isis followed him at a safe distance. It was a little tricky now that she didn’t have a crowd to blend into, but she was able to make use of the shadows caused by the press of buildings that overhung the streets.  
They were approaching an abandoned clothing factory when an electronic chiming sound caused the man to pause. He pulled a pager out of a little holster on his belt and began to fiddle with it. He even set the suitcase down so that he could use both hands. It was the perfect opportunity. Isis grinned humorlessly and pulled a Swiss Army Knife out of her waistband. She’d found it in the gutter a few months ago. It was almost completely broken with the exception of one application: the screwdriver.  
Isis darted forward silently and picked the trunk-style suitcase’s lock with the screwdriver. She winced as it opened with an audible click but the man was too absorbed by his pager to notice. She hesitated for just a moment before diving into the case. ‘Look down,’ she thought. ‘Don’t make me do this. I’m just under your nose. Look in my direction and I’ll go.’ But he didn’t. She’d done this a dozen times before and each time her conscience raged against her. Her bruised morality hurt almost as much as an empty stomach.   
Almost. At the end of the day integrity wouldn’t feed her.  
Delicately, and praying that the hinges were well oiled, Isis eased the suitcase open a sliver and began to dig through the contents, relying on her sense of touch rather than vision. Her eyes never left the man’s face. If he so much as glanced away from the pager she was ready to bolt.   
First Isis pulled out a wallet, then a second pager, then two cellphones, and finally a portable CD player. She could hardly believe her luck. Who on earth needed two phones and two pagers, and what are the odds that Isis would find them? This was the best haul she’d ever come across. The money she made selling the electronics could feed her for a week and there was no telling what she’d find in the wallet. This suitcase was a veritable gold mine.  
The first thing Isis had learned about theft was to never get greedy. The more you took, the more likely you were to be caught. And taking an entire suitcase or bag was unthinkable. The movement and obvious lack of property would attract attention within seconds. If the owner of the bag didn’t see you then another pedestrian certainly would, and too often they’d want to help the target. It was much easier and safer to go for smaller items that wouldn’t be missed for some time. So far Isis had taken just enough from the man to likely avoid getting caught. She knew that pushing her luck any further would be foolish.  
But it had been so long since her last solid meal. Longer still since she’d slept indoors. The idea of taking enough to rent a room was too tempting, especially now that the weather was starting to get cold at night. If she found one more thing to sell, she was sure she’d be able to rent a cheap hostel room. Maybe even one with a shower…  
Once more she delved into the suitcase, still not taking her eyes off the man. He seemed to be involved in a heated conversation with the person on the other end of the pager. As soon as he stopped typing the little device would chime with a new message. He was completely absorbed and looked as if he would be for at least a couple of minutes.  
Isis dug blindly until she felt an interior pocket. She reached in hoping to find valuables that had been tucked away for safer keeping; maybe a nice watch or a silver flask. Instead she grasped what felt like a plastic bag full of powder. She cautiously pulled it out and glanced briefly at the mysterious loot. It was a big zip-top freezer bag full of what looked like cooking flour. She couldn’t help but wonder at the strangeness of it. Maybe he was a baker.  
She hastily tucked the bag of flour down her shirt with the rest of the contraband. It was worthless compared to the electronics, but it would fill her up on a painfully hungry night. Anything helped.  
Isis would later thank the gods that she’d never tried to eat the “flour.”  
She reached back into the suitcase’s interior compartment and felt a few more bags of flour which she ignored. ‘He must be some kind of chef,’ she thought. ‘Who else would carry so much flour around with them?’   
A grin flitted across her face as her hand brushed something metallic. This was more like it. Metal usually mean value. She explored the object a little more, trying to determine if it was worth taking. It had a hole on one end, some sort of lever or switch that could be flipped with some effort, a couple of other movable parts, what felt like a handle…  
Sudden realization hit her like a train. A gun. She was holding a gun. She had just touched the trigger of a gun. She had just pulled the trigger of a gun. It must be unloaded or otherwise inactive, thank all the gods.   
Never in her life had Isis expected to encounter a gun while pick-pocketing. She’d never even seen one up close. She was sure it was valuable, but handling even an unloaded gun was so far beyond her comfort level that the very notion scared her. And it raised so many more questions. Who was this strange baker with so many communication devices and a gun?  
At this point it occurred to Isis that she may be in over her head. In any case going back into the suitcase had been a mistake. It was time for a hasty retreat.   
She withdrew her now trembling hand from the suitcase and began to crawl away when disaster struck. One of the cellphones down her shirt began to ring cheerfully and flash. Immediately the man’s attention snapped away from his pager to where Isis was crouching. Between her lumpy shirt and glowing stomach, it was pretty obvious what was happening.  
The man’s demeanor changed from jovial confusion to cold rage. “You bitch,” he hissed in perfect Arabic.   
This was far from the affronted yet pitying reaction she was used to upon being caught by tourists. Isis pulled at the hem of her shirt and let the stolen goods fall to the ground, save the bag of flour which had become stuck to her torso by cold sweat. “Sorry, sir,” she said and lifted her hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry!”  
“You’re sorry?” he said in a shrill, mocking imitation of Isis’ voice. “Do you know what you’ve done? How much you could have cost me?” He began to advance toward her. “Do you know what you’ve seen?”  
She shook her head frantically, eyes wide with fear, and began to back away. “No, no I’m just hungry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry!”   
She turned to run away right as the man lunged at her. He was startlingly quick for his size and managed to grab her by the Millennium Torc. She coughed as it dug into her throat and restricted her breathing. The man dragged her into the abandoned clothing factory and threw her to the ground.   
“You’ve seen my face,” he growled. “You’ve seen my products. Hell, you may have seen my ID for all I know.” He punctuated each sentence with a kick to her ribs. “If I let you get away, who knows who you’ll tell?”  
“Nobody!” Isis spluttered. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear it!”  
The man sneered down at her. “That as may be, but you see…” He knelt until his face was inches from hers. She could smell meat on his breath. “I can’t let you get away with trying to steal from me. Not without teaching you a little lesson.”   
With that he began to pummel her mercilessly. Isis curled into a ball to protect herself but it barely made a difference. The man rained blow after blow upon her, first with his fists and then with his feet. He didn’t stop when she sobbed out another apology. He didn’t stop when she began to bleed. He didn’t stop when pain caused her words failed her.  
After what felt like an eternity the man’s onslaught came to an end. As he stepped away Isis rose to her hands and knees to make her escape only to see him rummaging in the suitcase. Her mind immediately leapt to the gun and she began to scrabble to her feet. There was no way she could run faster than he could shoot, especially in her current condition, but she wouldn’t just sit there and be executed.   
Just as the man turned to her with the gun, the bag of flour freed itself from her stomach and toppled to rest on her feet. It had sprung a small leak giving her ankles a fine coating of powder. The man froze and stared at the ripped bag. His expression changed from cold rage back to cheerfulness and he slowly tucked the gun into his pocket. “Easy there, sweetheart” he said, his voice dripping with forced gentleness. “Now you just stay riiiiiight there- DON’T MOVE- and I’ll take that for you.”  
His syrupy façade only faltered as Isis swayed slightly on her feet. She stilled herself, too afraid to disobey. Though the gun was now in his pocket it would take him only seconds to draw it again.   
Between the man’s reaction and the way the powder made her feet tingle, it had become obvious to Isis that it was not flour. The man slowly approached her and began to reach for the bag. As he knelt Isis felt the strange sensation of the world falling away from her.  
It was her first vision in months.  
The man kneels and removes the bag from Isis’ feet. He slides his nice shirt up to cover his mouth and nose. He uses his tie to gently brush the remaining powder off her legs and into the bag. All the while he speaks to her in a soothing voice, calling her pet-names and urging her not to move. The platitudes sound like curses when spoken by such a foul person. When all the powder is back in the bag he ties off the leak and carefully sets it behind him. Isis begins to back away but the man draws his gun, aims, and-  
Isis was plunged back into the present. The man had paused mid kneel as Isis gasped in shock from the vision. “Hush,” he soothed. “Stay still, kiddo. I’ll get you all cleaned up and you can be on your way.”  
“Hold your breath,” the Millennium Torc whispered. Isis obeyed.  
“Cover your nose.” Isis clamped a hand over her nose.  
“Kick.”   
Isis’ foot, which was still holding the bag of what she now assumed to be drugs, smashed against the man’s chin. It burst with the force of her kick and the man was consumed by a cloud of white powder. Despite the all of the man’s caution, Isis’ attack took him by such surprise that he gasped before remembering to hold his breath.  
“Run,” urged the Torc.  
Isis didn’t need to be told twice. She spun on her heel and sprinted toward the door, adrenaline and fear making her forget how horribly she ached. The man tried to roar out a stream of obscenities, but his words came out in frenzied slurs. As Isis burst out the door of the factory she heard a blast from the gun and the ping of metal as the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the wall several yards away from her.  
She was able to run for several blocks before collapsing against a building, her injuries finally catching up to her. “Keep going,” the Millennium Torc ordered. She had a brief vision of the man running out of the building, his eyes wild and his breath quick. His head snapped back-and-forth spastically as he tried to decide which way to go. He noticed the trail of blood specks that she had left behind and began to follow it.  
Isis forced herself up and continued on. Each breath she took felt like a knife in her side but she knew she had to keep going. The Torc had bought her some time but it appeared that whatever was in the bag had only energized the man further.  
Fortunately she was only a few blocks away from her bag. It was stashed in an industrial dumpster down one of Cairo’s many back alleys. She’d memorized its garbage removal schedule a while back and knew she had several days before it would be emptied. It was the perfect place to store her belongings when she needed to travel light.  
Isis stood on her toes and tried to push the heavy lid off the dumpster. Stretching her battered body was torturous and, try as she might, the lid wouldn’t budge. She was too inured to do what had felt like nothing just a couple of hours ago.  
Just as she was about to give up, the Torc made one last demand. “Hide. The man is upon you,” it whispered barely perceptibly. Sure enough Isis could hear spastic mumblings, half in Arabic and half in a language she didn’t understand, from around the corner.   
She planted her hands firmly against the dumpster’s lid and summoned up her last bit of strength. With a push so painful it made black spots dance in front of her eyes she was finally able to heft the lid and scramble into the dumpster. She closed it over her, taking care not to let it slam, and hunkered down in the garbage.   
She lay with her ear pressed to the wall of the dumpster and listened as the man, still mumbling frantically, rounded the corner and walked towards her. She hardly dared to take a breath lest he hear her. His footsteps made scrabbling noises on the unkept street and she caught the occasional crude insult against her as he passed by her hiding place.  
Only when the sounds of his footsteps completely died away did Isis allow herself to relax. She rested her head against her bag and nestled down amongst the refuse. During her stent in Cairo she’d slept in some pretty questionable places, but never anywhere as shameful as in a dumpster. However, in that moment of pain and exhaustion, the garbage felt better than the most comfortable bed. Isis gave a final, painful sigh and drifted off to sleep.

It had been five minutes since Isis had given up.  
She awoke to a combination of pain, hunger, and cold. While still warm during the day, Cairo’s winter temperatures could plummet to freezing at night. The dumpster kept the wind off of her but the thin metal walls seemed to amplify the cold. Isis reached out blindly and grabbed a handful of what felt like old newspapers and tried her best to pull them over her for warmth. Her efforts hardly helped and even the small movement caused pain to ripple through her.  
She ran her hands over her face and sides in an attempt to assess her condition in the dark. Her left eye was swollen shut and her jaw ached at her touch. Her mouth tasted like blood and she realized that she was missing a molar. Dried blood from her nose crusted her chin and chest. Her arms and legs were probably a patchwork of bruises and she had several scrapes and open wounds on her shoulders and knees where she’d hit the ground.  
The most concerning issue of all was her side. There were no open sounds but every time Isis took a breath it felt as if she was being stabbed from the inside. She had a horrible suspicion that the culprit was a broken rib. All the other wounds would heal over time on their own but a broken rib, especially one pressing into her side, would take a long time to heal and severely restrict her movement. It would be impossible to pickpocket if she couldn’t run away.  
Isis gingerly rummaged through her duffel bag until she felt a tattered grocery sack that held a few stale slices of bread and an apple she’d been nibbling on over the last couple days. It was the last of her food. She began to eat a piece of bread without bothering to ration it. It didn’t matter anymore. There was nothing left she could do. It was time to give up.  
“I do not believe that.”  
Isis froze. The soft voice seemed to be coming from inside the dumpster with her, but even in the dark Isis was certain she would know if someone else was there. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice hoarse from the congealed blood in her throat.  
“Somebody who has been searching for you for quite some time now,” the voice responded in classic Egyptian. “Do not be alarmed, Miss Ishtar. I am a friend.”  
It dawned on Isis that she had heard this voice before. The last time she’d heard it she had been scared to her core. This time, however, she was too exhausted to feel anything beyond annoyance.  
“Listen,” she rasped, not bothering to conceal the frustration in her voice. “I’m not in the mood for games, or riddles, or threats. I also refuse to talk to the air. Show yourself.”  
“Ah, that is more what I was expecting from you.” A faint shimmer like a heat haze filled the dumpster and began to take shape. Eventually the stranger from the village sat across from her. He was holding the Millennium Ankh out towards her, the tip hovering just above her heart. It gave off a soft light which allowed Isis to see the interior of the dumpster clearly.   
The stranger smiled and lowered the Ankh. “Good evening, Miss Ishtar,” he said. “I am glad that you are finally ready to speak to me.”  
“I suppose you’re here to take the Millennium Torc,” Isis said flatly. “Well go ahead. I’m done with it.” She began to unhook the clasp when the man held up his hands in a placating gesture.   
“I am not here to take your Millennium Item,” he assured her. “I could not even if I wanted to. It is yours and yours alone.” He gently touched the Millennium Ankh around his neck. “I have my own Item and as of right now, it is all the responsibility I wish for.   
Isis lowered her hands but kept glaring at the man. “What do you want then?” she asked. “Are you here to tell me how badly I’ve failed? How much of a disappointment I am to my family? Or are you just here to make more threats?” Tears began to roll down her cheeks making her swollen eye and open scratches itch. Her heart began to beat faster and a wave of heat flooded her face. “Why won’t you leave me alone?!”  
Her annoyance was turning into genuine anger. Up until that day, no matter what Cairo had thrown at her, she had held onto hope that things would get better, that the Torc would start working again, that her brothers would come back to Egypt, and that they could be a family once more. In order to keep her resolve she had pushed all other emotions deep down inside of her. As far as Isis was concerned she didn’t have the time or energy to dwell on fear, anger, or pain.  
This system had worked fine for as long as she could remember. It had kept her strong in the Tomb and allowed her to survive her father’s death and her brothers’ betrayal without succumbing to grief. But now she was starting to slip. The last few hours were proving to be too much for her to repress and the sudden appearance of the stranger was the final stroke. Nine months of buried feelings came bubbling up to the surface.  
“Who are you?!” she shouted, her anger finally boiling over. Her voice cracked and her ribs sang out in pain. The volume of her outburst filled the dumpster and made her head throb, but she didn’t notice. What was a little more pain after all that she’d been through?  
The stranger simply gazed back at her, his expression unfathomable. His impassive reaction only angered Isis more.  
She slammed her fist against the metal wall, scraping her knuckles and sending a shock of pain down her arm. “Bast’s tits!” she cursed. “Answer me!”  
The stranger sat motionless.  
“How dare you- how dare you- defy me?!” she screamed. It was an old phrase that sprang naturally to her lips. Other familiar words followed close behind. “You insolent fool!” she roared. “You simpleton! You stupid child! You blasphemous cur!” You-! You…”   
Her tirade echoed in the small space and rounded back on her. These were words that Isis had heard dozens, if not hundreds, of times directed at her and her brothers. They had cut like a knife and made her feel small and foolish. Hearing them again, especially in her own voice, reignited those feelings of weakness and the trauma of the last few months amplified them beyond what she had ever experienced.   
Isis covered her face with her hands and began to sob as her rage dissolved into grief more potent even than the night her brothers abandoned her. She slumped against the dumpster wall and let despair wash over her. The stranger, the dumpster, her injuries, the Millennium Torc, and everything else seemed to drift away until the only things left in the world were Isis and her misery.  
She stayed this way, crying so hard it made her chest and sides ache, for what seemed like hours. Eventually her energy waned and her sobs turned into a soft whimper. As she calmed she noticed a warm sensation. It started at her feet and began to spread up her legs and into her torso, easing her physical pain as it went. Slowly she opened her good eye to see the stranger kneeling before her with his hands wrapped around her feet.  
“Wh-what are you doing?’” she sputtered.   
The man glanced up at her with a look of concern on his face. It was the first time Isis had seen his expression change. “Warming you. Helping you heal. I can not soothe your broken spirit, but I can at least make your wounds easier to bear,” he answered. As he spoke the warmth continued to flow up her shoulders and neck, her tension dissolving in its wake. As it moved to her face she found herself able to open her bad eye.  
Isis sniffled and wiped some dried blood away from her eyelid. “Thank you,” she said. “I… I’m sorry I yelled at you…”  
“It is quite alright,” the stranger assured her. “Trust me when I say that I have survived far worse than being yelled at. Metaphorically speaking, anyway.” He smiled and began to rub her ankles so gently that she couldn’t feel his touch. More warmth raced through her. “And you are right to ask who I am,” said the stranger. “I know you, Isis Ishtar. I know your family. I know your history. I know your mission. It is only fair that you should know me.”   
The stranger sat back against the opposite wall of the dumpster and extended his arm. “My name is Shadi.”  
She grasped his elbow in greeting. “Thank you,” she said with a small, wavering smile. “How did you know-” Her words were cut off by a gasp as her hand slipped through Shad’s previously solid arm as if it was nothing but mist.  
Shadi smiled. “Ah, your Torc has begun to work again. You must be feeling better if you have enough energy to break my corporeal form.”  
“You’re an Akh?” she asked nonchalantly as if meeting disembodied spirits was a common occurrence. Her sudden, unnatural calmness did little to mask her fear. She silently prayed that his strange abilities were simply gifts from the Millennium Ankh.  
“Indeed,” he replied. “I was born with a sacred duty. However, I was killed before my destined time of passing and there was nobody to inherit my task. Thus the gods saw fit to bind my soul to the Millennium Ankh until my mission is complete.”   
That didn’t bode well. Isis had read about Akhs in the Ishtar family texts. It was said that if someone died with unfinished business, Osiris would combine their Ba (personality) with their Ka (living soul) to form an Akh, a dead spirit that could interact with the living, and send them back to the realm of the living until they were ready to move on. According to the texts they were extremely rare and usually very dangerous. It was said that a good person should have no worldly matters pressing enough to keep them from the afterlife. A wicked person, however, would have their souls tied to greed, power, or worst of all, vengeance. It was said that an Akh seeking vengeance would stop at nothing until it got what it wanted.  
Like most kids, Isis had been morbidly fascinated by the idea of ghosts. For a while she had been sure there was an Akh living in the closet outside her room. Once she had even asked her father to tell her more about them. In those days, though still reclusive, Mr. Ishtar had seemed to enjoy it when Isis asked about matters of history and religion. At least one of his children was interested in it, though it was the wrong one.   
Isis had expected a history lesson while secretly hoping for a ghost story. Instead her father had flown into a rage seemingly out of nowhere. He had raged at her, yelling that women shouldn’t concern themselves with such matters and that she should know her place. Then he accused her of stealing texts from his private collection. She had broken down into tears and told him that she had learned about them from a common religion scroll, which he immediately confiscated and locked away. She had sworn to him that she would never read of, speak of, or even think of Akhs ever again.  
It had been the first time Isis’ father lost his temper with her, and it had been more terrifying than any evil spirit she could imagine. However, it had confirmed her suspicions; if a simple question about Akhs upset her father so deeply, then they must be very real, and very dangerous. And here was an Akh that had possessed a Millennium Item. The only more powerful beings she knew of were the gods themselves.   
She was completely at his mercy.  
“Please, do not be afraid,” said Shadi. Isis shifted uneasily. She thought she’d been doing a good job of keeping herself calm but apparently he hadn’t been fooled.   
“I’m not afraid,” Isis lied.  
Shadi smiled gently at her. “Yes, you are. I can sense it.” He held the Millennium Ankh up between them for Isis to look at. “Do you know the abilities of the Millennium Ankh?” he asked.  
“Only a little” she answered. While Malik had learned the intricacies of every Millennium Item, Isis and Rishid had only been allowed to learn the very basics.  
“I figured as much. Here.” Shadi slipped the Ankh over his head and passed it to Isis. “It’s okay, you may hold it,” he said in response to her anxious expression. “Take a look. What does it resemble?”  
She turned the glowing Ankh over in her hands. As she did, she noticed the notch at the base of the stem. “It looks like a key,” she answered.  
Shadi nodded encouragingly. “Precisely. And what do you think it unlocks?”  
“I know it lets you look at a person’s soul. So would it unlock… a soul?” Shadi nodded again. “But I have no idea what that means,” she admitted. “It sounds like mind reading, but that’s what the Millennium Eye does.”  
“Ah, good reasoning,” Shadi said approvingly. “It does not let me read a person’s thoughts in the manner of the Millennium Eye. No, the Ankh is far more powerful than just that. By unlocking someone’s soul I gain access to their emotions, their memories, their intellect, and their ambitions. To put it in simple terms, I can see the very essence of their being.” He smiled gently. “As you may imagine, detecting your fear did not pose a challenge.”  
Isis stared at him in awe for a moment, then whispered, “you… you know everything about me? You can see it all?” She raised her hands to her head as if to protect herself from the Ankh.   
Shadi made a calming gesture. “I assure you I would never violate your mind in that way. I only use the full power of the Millennium Ankh if I absolutely must. If I am not mistaken, your Millennium Torc will sometimes show you visions you did not request. The Millennium Ankh does something similar. You are radiating fear, along with about a dozen other strong emotions, and the Ankh cannot help but channel them.”  
Isis relaxed a little and lowered her hands. “Well, okay I guess,” she conceded. Still, she didn’t relish the idea of someone sensing her feelings and was not yet sure if she could trust Shadi. He seemed sincere, but the man from earlier that day had seemed naive. Seeming wasn’t good enough. “You said that the gods sent you back to complete your sacred duty. What is your mission?” she probed, hoping that the Millennium Ankh wouldn’t expose her distrust.  
A brief look of discomfort crossed Shadi’s face only to be instantly replaced by his customary tranquility. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to bother him very much. “I have a duty similar to your brother’s. In fact, I myself am a Tomb Keeper,” he replied.   
This caught Isis’ attention. “You’re a Tomb Keeper?” she gasped. “Does that mean we’re related?”  
“Very distantly, yes. Our family branched off from yours a long time ago. We are the clan Shin.”  
“I thought we were the only Tomb Keepers!” Isis exclaimed. She had known that there were five more Millennium Items that must need protecting but had been discouraged from asking about them. While her fascination with history was smiled upon and her basic understanding of their rituals was a compulsory, her father had made it clear that anything pertaining to the Items and their powers were strictly his and Malik’s business. In the interest of self preservation, Isis had not pressed the subject.   
Still, she couldn’t be sure that Shadi was telling the truth. While Isis desperately wanted to believe him, she’d studied the Ishtar family genealogy and had never seen the name Shin.   
“Why have I never heard of you?” she asked.  
“I cannot say for certain, but I have my suspicions. I knew your father…” Shadi let the sentence trail off and watched Isis. It seemed like he was waiting for a reaction, but she simply returned his gaze in silence. “I saw his soul,” he continued after a moment’s hesitation. “He was very, ah, traditional in his views. He most likely did not approve of my family’s more proactive approach to protecting our Millennium Items. I believe he did not want you or your siblings to know that there were Tomb Keepers who could interact with the world.”  
Isis nodded. That certainly sounded like something her father would do. “Is that why the family split up? Because you wanted to go outside?”  
Shadi gave a small chuckle and shook his head. “No, not at all. In fact, the decision to divide the family was met with much sorrow. It was, however, necessary. I assume you know about the dangers of grave robbers?”  
Isis nodded again.  
“Then you can appreciate their predicament,” Shadi continued. “While grave robbers have always posed a problem for us, they have never been as bad as they were during the eighteenth and nineteenth century. That time is referred to as ‘the Age of Enlightenment.’ It was a quest for knowledge that swept across North America, most of Europe and into Africa. Scholars from across the world began to search for any new information they could find.”  
“That sounds nice,” Isis said. It seemed like an endeavor that Malik would enjoy.  
“It is true that much good came of it,” Shadi conceded. “However, that knowledge came at a high price for many. One thing that fascinated these scholars was ancient people, and in their mind the best way to learn about ancient people was to rob their graves.”  
Isis grimaced scornfully. “Archaeologists,” she sneered. “Yes, I know about them. We have a whole group of servants whose job is to keep them away.”  
“Be thankful that you did not have to deal with Enlightenment archaeologists, if you can even call them archaeologists,” said Shadi, his expression transforming into an uncharacteristic look of bitterness. “In modern times they must follow strict guidelines while excavating, but a mere hundred years ago they took what they wanted with impunity. Countless graves were unearthed. Thousands, if not millions of artifacts were stolen. Bodies were taken and put on display for cheap entertainment. Some especially reprehensible thieves even used mummy skin in the production of medicine and paint.”  
“That’s disgusting!” Isis gasped.  
“Indeed,” Shadi nodded. “We decided in those times to spread the Millennium Items out. We reasoned that should their resting place be found and sacked, the thieves would only get a few items which could then be more easily recovered.”  
As Isis listened she became aware of Shadi’s odd speech affectation. He spoke of long past events as if he had personally experienced them. She shrugged it off as a strange habit. Regardless, his story made sense. Growing up she had been told stories about archaeologists the way most children were told stories about boogie men. However, she still had several questions.  
“Why did you come looking for us in the village?” she asked. “You said that you had no suitable person to inherit your role as Tomb Keeper. Does that mean you left the other items unattended?”  
Shadi smiled with approval at her question. “Not as such,” he said. “You see, my duty is a little bit more complex than that of your father and brother. I do not merely protect the sacred items. My mission is to use the ancient prophesies along with the powers of the Millennium Ankh to make sure that each Millennium Item reaches its chosen master at the appropriate time. If necessary I train each bearer how to use their item. You may think of me as a shepherd for the Items.  
“At the moment, all of the Millennium Items are with their bearers. However, things are not happening the way the scriptures foretold.” He glanced down at his hands. Isis watched as they flickered briefly, then solidified once again. “Events which were fated to take place over a number of years have come to pass in mere months. It would appear that someone- or something- can manipulate the flow of destiny. I knew that you and your brother were about to inherit your Millennium Items years before you were ready. That’s why I came to find you; to help guide you.”  
Isis was struck by a pang of guilt at the mention of someone manipulating fate. “Was… was it my fault?” she asked, already fearing the answer. “Did I throw fate off its course by taking Malik outside?”   
“No,” Shadi answered. “You did nothing to harm fate. The initial incident occurred several weeks before your misfortunes began. And rest assured that no mere human, no matter how willful, could achieve that.”   
“Still,” Isis sighed. “If I had not taken Malik outside none of this would have happened. At least some of the blame is mine.” She looked down at her soiled clothes and emaciated form. “I deserve this.” She could feel another flood of sorrow coming for her.  
Shadi reached out and placed his hand over hers. A wave of warmth shot up her arm and quelled the grief before it consumed her. “Miss Isis… my dear cousin,” he said quietly. “I sense the weight you bear. You are burdened by a measure of guilt that nobody should have to carry. I wish I could take it away from you, but even using my Millennium Ankh I can only ease your pain temporarily. All that has happened was destined to happen. It is not your fault.”  
Isis didn’t answer. Shadi’s words were kind but she was sure she was more at fault than he claimed.  
“Would it help if I showed you other possible outcomes?” he asked. “I saw into the souls of the men pursuing you, Paki and Nizam, the day you left the Tomb for good and I found some disturbing ambitions.”  
Isis glanced up at Shadi, her interest piqued even through the haze of guilt. “What were they plotting?” she asked.  
“I believe that if fate had moved at its correct pace, you would have been married to Paki in a few years’ time to secure their role in your family. Then upon your father’s death, they planned to manipulate Malik into leaving the Tomb and seeking out the other items so that they could assume their powers and use them for selfish means.”  
As he spoke, Shadi raised the Ankh and positioned it just over Isis’ forehead. She had to stop herself from staring at it cross-eyed. “If that had been the case, you and your brothers would have united to thwart them and come into your Items in the right time. However, with fate the way it is now…”  
There was a burst of gold light and a sensation of movement as Isis was plunged into a vision. Unlike the immersive nature of her visions this one flickered by in a series of images, each one lasting no more than a few seconds. The effect was similar to watching a faulty television.  
The vision began, First there was the Tomb. She saw her father sitting at a table, reading from a text. As soon as she looked at him, she knew he was in a foul mood. It had nothing to do with his actions or anything he said. The knowledge simply seeped in from out of nowhere. Furthermore, she knew he was in a rage because he had caught Malik trying to sneak out of the Tomb the previous day.  
The vision changed. Suddenly Paki and Nizam were there. They wanted to discuss the future. They had just said something that upset her father. He was in no mood to think about that. Who were they to suggest such an arrangement? It was his choice, not theirs.  
The vision changed. Her father’s mood had shifted from seething anger to an unbridled rage. He was yelling at the men. Nizam held up his hands pacifyingly. He wanted to calm the situation. Paki was glowering. Now he was starting to lose his temper. He had been working for this family all his life. He deserved power. He deserved privilege. He deserved Isis.  
The vision changed. Paki was standing over her father. Her father’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. His face was bruised and some of his bones were broken. Paki’s knuckles were bloody. It hadn’t been difficult. Master Ishtar, though not yet an old man, was weakened from more than a decade of too little food and too much mourning. Paki however was a strong young man. Nizam was horrified, but already plotting how to conceal the murder He was going to frame Rishid. Malik was peaking in through the doorway completely unnoticed by the men.  
The vision changed. Malik had the Millennium Rod. He was using it to torture Paki. Nizam was already dead. So much rage poured out of him that it made Isis ill.  
The vision changed. She, Rishid, and Malik were standing outside among the ruins. They were having nearly the exact same fight they’d had nine months ago. Malik blamed the Pharaoh for Nizam and Paki’s actions. During the argument with their father, Nizam had spoken of the will of the Pharaoh. From there, thing happened exactly as they had in reality, except there were now three bodies instead of one.  
The vision faded away and Isis was back in the dumpster, staring at Shadi in dumbfounded silence. “That- that is what would’ve happened?!” she spluttered when she was finally able to speak.  
“I cannot say for certain, but based on their souls, previous actions, and the prophesies, that is my best prediction,” Shadi answered. “My Ankh does not allow me see the future like your Torc, but it does allow me to see the past and present so clearly that predicting people’s future actions becomes a simple matter, and I have had much practice.  
“In any case, you can see that what happened is not your fault. No matter what you had done that day, your father would still have died, Malik and Rishid would still have run away, and you would still be where you currently are.” As Shadi spoke, a rare smile began to cross Isis’ lips. Though the vision had been disturbing to put it mildly, the knowledge that she had not single-handedly destroyed her family filled her with relief. She knew that Shadi was right; it would take her a long time to completely let go of the guilt. She had still transgressed horribly by smuggling Malik out of the Tomb and despite what she’d been told was sure she’d caused at least some of what had happened, but in that moment she felt as light as a feather.  
Shadi smiled and pated Isis companionably on the head. “What matters now is that you learn how to use the Millennium Torc, and that’s why I am here. Of all the Millennium Items, it may be the most challenging to master. But you are its chosen one and should be proficient very soon, especially since you have already had almost a year of practice with it.”  
This immediately snuffed out Isis’ glimmer of hope. For all of the Millennium Ankh’s powers, it seemed that Shadi was unaware of her failure with the Torc. “I… I don’t think I’m the Torc’s chosen one,” she admitted. “It hasn’t worked for me in months. I just get a headache when I try to use it, and the only visions it sends me are nightmares. It gave me a vision today, but only because I was about to die.”   
Isis began to fiddle with the Torc as she spoke. It had become something of a nervous habit. Sometimes she woke up because she’d been holding it so hard in her sleep that the Eye of Horus left marks on her palm. “Shadi, it doesn’t want me. I failed.”  
“Failed?” Shadi repeated incredulously. “You have not failed. Far from it. Please, tell me you know what powers the Millennium Torc possesses.”   
“It shows me the future,” Isis said with a shrug. “That’s about it, right?”  
Shadi sighed and shook his head. “Your arrogant, archaic father deserved everything he got. The nerve of leaving one of his children unprepared,” he hissed. “But that is beside the point. No, that is not all the Millennium Torc can do. The morning you left the Tomb we met in the village. I was there to guide you to safety and teach you how to use the Torc, but I unwittingly chose a horrible time to appear and you fled. The power of my Millennium Ankh allows me to sense souls from vast distances, especially if they are entwined with my sacred mission. Why do you think I did not pursue you? For that matter, why do you think I approached you when you were so full of fear?”  
This caused Isis to pause. “I… I don’t know. When I woke up in the Rahal’s house I was so relieved that I didn’t think much about it. I actually assumed that you were a hallucination from exhaustion. Then you mentioned seeing Paki and Nizam and I assumed that they distracted you.”  
“They did distract me, but only for a moment,” Shadi answered with a smile. “And I might add that I am delighted you met Kakra. Now I feel a fool for not seeking her out immediately.”  
“Who’s Kakra?” Isis asked.   
“Ah, one moment,” Shadi said, then made small upward gesture with the Millennium Ankh in her direction. “Oh I see she’s using her Saudi name now. You know her as ‘Farah.’”  
“You know Farah?” Isis asked in surprise. “How?”  
Shadi smiled and shook his head. “Now is not the time to discuss her. If she withheld her identity from you, she had a good reason to do so. For now, let us just think of her as a family friend. More to the point, why do you think it took me nearly a year months to find you?”  
Isis just shrugged.  
“And why do you think you can break my corporeal form so easily? Would you like to hazard a guess?”  
While Isis didn’t know the specifics, it was fairly clear where these questions were guiding her. “It has something to do with the Millennium Torc,” she said.  
“Indeed,” Shadi confirmed. “The Millennium Torc has three powers: it shows you the past, it predicts the future, and it defends the bearer’s present, especially from other Millennium Items. For nine months it has made you invisible to my Millennium Ankh. Even during our discussion tonight it has been preventing me from reading some of your feelings. In fact,” Shadi grinned, “this has been one of the most interesting conversations I have had in quite a long time for that reason.”  
“How?!” Isis gasped. “I never even knew it could do that.”  
“It’s a passive ability. It decided that I was a threat based on your discomfort toward me and hid you. In nine months, the concealment only wavered once and that was earlier this day. You mentioned that you had your first vision in a long time today?”  
Isis was sitting up as straight as she could with her injuries. “Yes!” she answered, desperate to hear more.  
Shadi nodded. “I am certain that is when the Millennium Torc stopped hiding you from me. Like all Millennium Items, it takes energy to use the Torc’s powers. Based on the emotions I read while you slept as well as your appearance, I am correct in assuming that you are quite exhausted most of the time, both physically and mentally?”  
Isis cringed at the thought of having her soul read while she slept, but Shadi was right. “I’ve been tired for a long time,” she confirmed.  
Once again, Shadi took her hand and sent a wave of heat through her body. “Indeed,” he said. “That is why you have not been able to use your Torc to the fullest extent of its abilities. You only have enough energy for one power at a time and it chose protection from you. And not merely protection from me. It has been subtly guiding you through the streets of Cairo. This is a dangerous city and the fact that it took you nine months to have a violent interaction is miraculous considering how sheltered you were.”  
“I was also poisoned,” Isis interjected. “It didn’t stop that.”  
Shadi raised his eyebrows pointedly. “Did you die from the poison?” he asked.  
“No, I stumbled into a Mosque and… got help…” Isis only had a handful of blurry memories from the poisoning. She remembered stumbling down a street and entering an open door at random, then waking up on a cot.  
“There you have it,” Shadi responded. “You have not failed, Isis. You have been effectively working with the Millennium Ankh for months. Truly, you are the chosen bearer.”  
Isis found herself unable to stop smiling. “I’m not a failure,” she repeated.   
“Not at all,” Shadi confirmed, matching her smile. “And as you practice with it, your skill will grow immensely. I look forward to teaching you, dear cousin.”  
“Thank you!” she exclaimed. “I am so eager to start! Wen can we- aaugh!”   
Isis’ words were cut off by a sharp pain in her side. In her excitement she had tried to sit up on her knees. It had been a mistake.   
“Slow down,” Shadi said. “The Millennium Ankh can only help soothe your pain. It cannot heal broken bones and open wounds.”  
Isis sighed in disappointment and eased back down onto the old newspapers that carpeted the dumpster. She had almost forgotten her injuries. “How does the Ankh soothe pain?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from the freshly revived discomfort.  
“In simple terms, it convinces your mind that you cannot feel pain,” he answered. “But there will be plenty of time for questions and answers when you have recovered. For now…” Shadi held the Millennium Ankh to her forehead once again. This time, instead of a vision, Isis felt herself becoming drowsy. Her body slumped against the dumpster wall of its own accord. “Sleep.”   
The command was impossible to ignore. The last thing Isis remembered before drifting into a deep sleep was a feeling that she hadn’t experienced in almost a year.  
It was the sense of warmth and safety that comes only from family.

Isis pulled her Duel Monsters deck out of its drawstring bag. To most of the world, it was simply a toy. To her it was both an outward expression of her soul and a tool of immense power. She absent-mindedly cut the deck and examined the card she had stopped at. She didn’t need the Torc to predict which one it would be. It was always her favorite.  
“Blast Held by a Tribute.”  
It had been in the lone Duel Monsters booster pack that Malik and Rishid left in the alleyway as they fled from the game shop. The card graphic depicted a figure holding a ball of fire in their bare hands. It was prepared to sacrifice itself to the opponent’s monster, then burn for the sake of the other cards on its team.  
It was prepared to give up everything for its family.  
And so was she.

(Author’s note:   
Me in February: You can TOTALLY finish 1 chapter per month. It’ll be easy.  
Me in December: You naive little fool.  
Sorry this chapter took half a year to complete. It’s been a busy time for me. But thank you for being so patient and the best readers/followers/commenters in the world.  
P.S. That thing about making paint out of mummies is grossly true. Google “mummy brown.” Eugh.)


End file.
